Deep Waters
by strings529
Summary: Maxine Arthur came to 221B Baker Street to visit her childhood friend John Watson, not to meet a high-functioning sociopath by the name of Sherlock Holmes, or to join him and John in solving mysteries. But against all odds, she and Sherlock begin to fall in love, and soon it becomes clear that they're in deep waters. (Sherlock x OC)
1. Family Friend

Doctor John Watson returned to 221B Baker St in a very bad mood.

To his surprise, his flatmate hadn't managed to blow up the street in his absence. A suspicious glance around the room told him that everything was as he had left it. At first glance it seemed like a normal flat: a fireplace, two armchairs and a couch, books sprawled around the room... But on second glance one would notice the countless science experiments in the kitchen, mail being pinned to the mantel with a knife, and the human skull stacked on top of a pile of books.

In other words, it looked like normal.

"You took your time."

John turned around to see his flatmate sitting in one of the armchairs, his blue eyes skimming through the book in front of him. For once, Sherlock Holmes seemed calm and... well... _normal_ , which was something that Sherlock was not. John looked at him suspiciously, as if he would be able to find something wrong with this picture, but his curly brown hair was as wild as usual, and his black suit and dress pants were impeccable.

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping," John finally said.

That finally caused Sherlock to look up from his book, his expression shocked. "What?!" he protested. "Why not?"

John glared. "Because I had a row," he snapped. "In the shop. With a chip and PIN machine."

Sherlock lowered his book slightly, his expression more amused now than annoyed. "You... you had a row with a machine?" he repeated.

John just grimaced. "Sort of," he admitted. "It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?"

Even though it seemed like he had plenty more to say on the topic of the chip and PIN machine, Sherlock nodded towards the kitchen. "Take my card," he offered.

Sighing, John headed in the direction that Sherlock had indicated and saw that his wallet was on the table. "You could always go out yourself, you know," he pointed out. "You've been sitting there all morning; you've not even moved since I left." Sherlock didn't reply as John picked up his wallet and started going through it. "What happened about that case you were offered- the Jaria Diamond?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Not interested," he replied. He placed a piece of paper in his book as a bookmark and closed it with a loud snap, putting it on the endtable next to him. "I sent them a message."

Just as John found the right card, the doorbell rang downstairs, and he froze. "Oh, no," he groaned. He glanced at the time and groaned again. "Max is here already!"

Sherlock gave him a confused look. "Max?" he repeated.

John glared at him. "I've told you about this!" he snapped. "She's an old friend of mine who's coming to visit." Sherlock's blank look told John that he hadn't heard of this before. "She emailed last week and I told you about it... multiple times?" Sherlock's expression didn't change. "She's the reason why I went out for food on a _Tuesday morning?"_

Finally that seemed to jar something in Sherlock's mind, because he nodded and picked up his book again. "Ah," he stated. "Right."

John started sputtering angrily, but before he could reply, Mrs. Hudson walked in. "John, there's a young lady who wants to see you," she said. "Maxine Arthur?"

He nodded, trying to compose himself. "Yeah, she's a friend," he told her.

Mrs. Hudson beamed. "She's pretty, John!" she gushed. "You lucky man!"

John groaned. "No, no, Mrs. Hudson, it's not like that," he corrected. "Our parents knew each other, that's all. We grew up together."

"It was purely platonic, even though I think we talked about dating at one point. But that was when we were in primary school, so it doesn't count."

The three people in the room turned around to see a young woman standing in the doorway. Her dark mahogany hair was tied up in a tight bun, and she was wearing a formal grey blazer and black dress pants, as well as a pair of black heels that made her a fair bit taller than John. But her stern outfit was contradicted by the easy grin on her face and the sparkle in her warm blue eyes.

"Max!" John greeted happily.

Her grin widened, and she pulled John into a hug. "Hey, Johnny," she said.

John pulled back from the hug but kept his hands on her shoulders, looking her up and down. "My God, you've grown up!" he exclaimed. "You're supposed to be shorter than me!"

Max laughed. "It's the American air," she teased. "The heels probably did it, too."

Mrs. Hudson beamed. "I spent some time in America!" she said. "You're American?"

"Obviously not."

Everyone turned to where Sherlock was still sitting in his armchair, reading his book once again. Max seemed surprised to see him there, as if she hadn't even noticed his presence in the room before he had spoken.

When he was sure that he had the attention of everyone in the room, Sherlock looked up from his book. "She can't be American because she and John grew up together, and she also said _primary school,_ which people don't say in America, so that means she was born and raised in England," he told them. "It's also equally apparent that she recently spent time in America, based on her accent and slang, and that she's only moved back recently."

Max smiled at him. "Are you a linguist?" she asked politely.

Sherlock scoffed as he turned back to his book. "No," he stated.

When no other explanation was forthcoming, John sighed. "Max, meet my flatmate Sherlock Holmes," he said. "He's a consulting detective- the police come to him with cases. He has a mind trick thing."

"It's not a _mind trick,"_ Sherlock interrupted, clearly irritated. "I observe and I deduce, that's all."

Max nodded to Sherlock. "That's impressive," she commented. Sherlock didn't bother to reply.

John cleared his throat. "Well, anyway, I had a slight problem at the store-" he started.

"He got into a row with the chip and PIN machine," Sherlock interrupted.

"I got into a row with the chip and PIN machine," John admitted shamelessly, "so I need to run out to buy the groceries again. Do you want to come, Max?"

Sherlock gave John an irritated look from over the top of his book. "Obviously not," he snapped. "She's just come from a job interview and she's tired. I thought you were supposed to be the nice one here, John."

John blinked, obviously confused. "Oh... uh... right," he said. He glanced at Max. "Do you want to stay here until I come back?"

Max smiled regretfully. "Yeah, that would be nice," she admitted. "My feet are killing me."

He nodded, even though he seemed a bit uneasy about the idea of leaving Max and Sherlock alone immediately after they first met. "Right," he agreed. "Right. Sit down, make yourself at home. I'll be right back." He pointed at Sherlock. "Be nice." With that, he turned and headed down the stairs.

For a second, the flat was silent, but then Mrs. Hudson squealed. "Oh, this is so exciting!" she exclaimed happily. "You know, it's really not often that the boys invite a friend over. I'll go bring up some tea and biscuits!" Still smiling happily, she hurried out of the flat.

And that left Max and Sherlock.

Max took a seat in the second armchair, the one that she assumed was John's. Despite the fact that she was now sitting right across from Sherlock, he still didn't acknowledge her presence.

"How did you know I just came from a job interview?" she asked.

Sherlock looked up from his book, seeming mildly annoyed. "It was fairly easy," he told her. "Based on the way you were standing in heels, you're rapidly forming blisters, which means that you don't wear heels often. So this means that you were preparing for a special occasion, most likely a one-time event. That hypothesis is also supported by your makeup, which is carefully done but clearly not a habit, based on how you smudged your eyeliner multiple times while applying it, which is something that wouldn't happen if you use makeup regularly; therefore, once again a one-time special occasion. So what would this occasion be? A date? Spending time with friends? Doubtful; you wouldn't wear a blazer, and you definitely wouldn't be meeting before..." He trailed off and glanced at the time. "10:23 in the morning on a Tuesday. And yes, this appointment would have to have been before you arranged with John to meet here because you made plans with him, and it can't be later in the afternoon, because if it was then you wouldn't be wearing heels so soon when clearly you dislike them; also, you clearly didn't dress up like this to meet with John because, as I said before, you wouldn't be wearing a blazer to a date with a friend. So, by ruling out a personal matter, this has something to do with a job. Now, a job; based on your outfit, I would say that your type of work is done in an office setting with regular hours. So did you have a business meeting? Most likely not; a business meeting that would require you to dress up would most likely be over a meal, and 10:23- well, it's 10:24 now- is nowhere near breakfast or lunch. Of course, you could have had brunch, but the point is moot anyway because after a business meeting you would still be at work, not meeting an old friend at his flat. Then what other job-related position would call you into the office in the middle of the day in the middle of the week and leave you with nothing to do afterwards? A job interview."

Max was silent for a second as she processed that, but then she grinned at him. "You're right about the heels," she commented. "Do you mind if I take my shoes off?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why would I?" he challenged.

Taking that as permission, Max took off her heels and stretched out her toes. "Ah, that feels better," she sighed. She glanced at Sherlock again, but he had already turned back to his book. "I suppose you also know where the job interview was?"

Sherlock scoffed, still not looking up from his book. "Obviously," he said. "There's a paper sticking out of your bag with the Bibliotheque logo on it." Max glanced in her bag, then hurriedly shoved the paper further in so that it couldn't be seen. "Based on the fact that Bibliotheque is one of the leading graphic design companies in the UK I would say that you were in America for university, most likely the Rhode Island School of Design, which is widely known as the best college for graphic design in the world. You've just finished your degree and therefore moved back to London."

Max nodded. "Right again," she agreed.

He rolled his eyes. "Simple," he said. Finally, he looked up at her, his blue eyes pinning her in place. "Tell me, what's it like living in such a small brain as yours?"

She blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?" she asked.

Sherlock didn't even seem fazed. "Oh, not you personally," he told her. "Everyone's an idiot. What's it like? It must be so boring, not noticing things."

Max grinned, not offended in the slightest. "Well, I seem to have noticed one thing that you haven't," she said. He raised an eyebrow. "The next time you try to hide a sword under your chair, make sure the light doesn't glint on the blade." He glanced under the chair and saw that she was right. Irritated, he nudged the sword out with his foot and picked it up. "Am I allowed to ask why you have a sword?"

He grimaced. "One of my clients was very irritated when I refused his case," he answered. "They left this as a... souvenir."

It didn't take much for Max to read between the lines.

Max laughed. "You're lucky John didn't see it, or else he'd blow up," she told him.

He scoffed. "He wouldn't see it," he replied. "He doesn't _look._ " He looked at her with a strange expression. "You have an eye for detail."

She shrugged. "It comes with being a graphic designer, I guess," she commented. "I draw, too, so..." She looked at him curiously. "How did you and John meet? You're not the usual type of person that he spends time with."

Sherlock casually leaned the sword against the side of his armchair, as if he did it every day. "We both needed a flatmate," he replied. "We were introduced by a colleague. Then he started solving crimes with me."

Max grinned widely. "Hold up," she said. "John helps you?!"

He shrugged. "I find it productive to voice my thoughts aloud while working, and talking to a human being attracts less attention than a skull," he pointed out. He nodded towards the skull on the mantle.

Suddenly, before Max could reply, the door to the flat swung open and Mrs. Hudson walked in with tea and biscuits. It seemed like she was going to join them, but when she saw that Max and Sherlock were actually having a polite conversation, she beamed happily and left them to their own devices.

Max looked at the skull suspiciously. "Is that actually a real skull?" she asked.

Sherlock gave her a look as he took a biscuit. "Why wouldn't it be?" he challenged. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Be quiet. I'm going to my mind palace."

She raised an eyebrow but didn't question it.

000

Half an hour later, Max hadn't moved from her seat in the armchair, but Sherlock had grabbed a laptop and was now looking through it. The flat had remained quiet ever since Sherlock had asked for silence, the only sound being Sherlock's typing and Max as she chewed on the biscuits that Mrs. Hudson had left out.

Suddenly, the stairs started creaking loudly as someone began to climb them. Sherlock didn't even look up, but Max turned around just in time to see John walking into the flat, struggling with a handful of grocery bags. "Oh, so you didn't kill each other," he remarked. "I'm impressed."

Max rolled her eyes. "Oh, give us some credit, Johnny," she said. "I actually found Sherlock a delightful person to talk to."

That caused both John and Sherlock to stop what they were doing to look at her. John's expression clearly said that he thought she was crazy, and Sherlock seemed startled, as if he had never heard anyone call him delightful before. Actually, now that she thought about it, he probably never had.

"Is that my computer?!" John suddenly demanded.

Max turned around to see John glaring at the Sherlock, who had gone back to typing on the laptop. Sherlock didn't even look up. "Of course," he replied.

" _What?!"_ John exclaimed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Mine was in the bedroom," he said simply.

John glared at him. "What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" he challenged.

Max rolled her eyes. "John, relax a bit, will you?" she requested. "Part of having a flatmate is sharing everything- take it from someone who was in a dorm."

But her words didn't seem to have any affect on John, who was still giving Sherlock a death glare. "But it's password protected!" he protested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "In a matter of speaking," he replied. "Took me less than a minute to guess yours." He glanced up at John. "Not exactly Fort Knox."

John huffed irritably. "Right, thank you," he said sarcastically. He walked up to Sherlock and snatched the computer from him, closing the lid just as Sherlock pulled his fingers away. He put the laptop on the ground next to his armchair and sat on the arm, wrapping his arm around Max's shoulders. "I bought vanilla ice cream for you."

Max's eyes brightened. "You didn't!" she exclaimed excitedly.

John grinned. "I did," he agreed. "We'll have some later."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "I thought we agreed that all the vanilla ice cream was mine!" he protested.

John frowned at him. "When did we agree on that?" he demanded.

Sherlock gave him a look. "We did," he stated with certainty.

"No we didn't," John said.

"We did," Sherlock retorted.

John crossed his arms. "You're being ridiculous!" he exclaimed. "Max is a guest! Apple pie with vanilla ice cream is her favorite dessert!"

"But the vanilla ice cream is mine!" Sherlock insisted.

Max looked from Sherlock to John and back again, a small smile on her face as the two flatmates argued. "Do you do this all the time?" she asked.

"When he's being an ass, yes!" John protested, irritated.

She laughed. "That's hilarious," she declared. She stood up from the chair. "Where's your bathroom?"

John gestured to the hallway opposite of the kitchen. "First door to the left," he told her.

Max nodded. "Got it," she said. She walked in the direction that he had indicated, but she stopped when she reached the bathroom door. "We should go out to lunch later, all three of us." She grinned at them then headed into the bathroom.

John slid into the armchair and sighed wearily. He reached towards the endtable and grabbed the letters that were stacked there. "So, it seems like you made quite an impression on Max," he commented.

Sherlock scoffed but didn't reply.

"How did you like her?" John prompted.

Sherlock shrugged.

Sighing, John accepted that he wasn't going to get an answer from Sherlock. He started flipping through the letters, frowning as he counted the number of bills that he had received. "Need to get a job," he muttered.

"Oh, dull," Sherlock declared, staring up at the ceiling with a blank expression.

John sighed and tossed the pile of letters back onto the table. He glanced at Sherlock, then back at the bills on the table. Sighing again, he leaned forward in his chair, shifting awkwardly. "Listen... um... if you'd be able to lend me some-" he attempted.

But he realized that Sherlock, as usual, wasn't paying attention, and he glared at him. "Sherlock, are you listening?" he demanded.

"I need to go to the bank," Sherlock suddenly declared.

Without any further warning, Sherlock stood and headed towards the door, grabbing his long ulster coat as he did so. "Wait, what about Max?!" John protested. "And lunch?!"

Sherlock paused on his way out the door. "She can come with us," he offered.

"We can't just leave her in the flat-" John started, but then he realized what Sherlock had said. "Wait, what? You're not going to put up a fight?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She has good eyes," he said. "She can see all the little details if she tries, sometimes things that I don't notice- not that she knows how to use what she sees, but still, she may be helpful." He shot John a pointed look. "And I appreciate her talent of being able to refrain from speaking for an extended period of time. So yes, she can come."

"I can come where?"

The two men turned around to see Max standing in the hallway, a grin on her face. She had changed into a casual pair of jeans and a purple T-shirt, and had also taken her hair out of her bun and washed off her makeup; the new outfit made her look younger, more relaxed.

Sherlock didn't even seem to notice that she had changed. "We're going to the bank," he told her.

She grinned. "Awesome," she declared. "Let's go."


	2. Chocolate Truffles

A few minutes after leaving Baker St, Sherlock was walking through the revolving glass doors of Shad Sanderson Bank, followed by Max and John.

Max took a few seconds to look around the grand foyer. The theme of the entire building seemed to be glass, even the walls, and the ceiling stretched up as far as the eye could see. Professionally dressed people were walking in and out of the building, enough for the building to be considered busy but not crowded yet.

"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank..." John trailed off, unable to form words.

Sherlock headed towards the escalators, and Max and John hurried behind him. He glanced around the foyer as the escalator ascended: not for the sake of scenery, but to note the locations of the cameras and the security system.

They reached the top of the escalator, and Max saw that there was a large reception desk with countless receptionists stationed at even intervals. Sherlock walked straight up to the one in the center, not showing any sign of uncertainty.

"Sherlock Holmes," he announced.

000

Apparently the name _Sherlock Holmes_ carried some weight at Shad Sanderson Bank, even though Max was pretty sure that Sherlock didn't even have an account here, because the three of them had been rushed into the boss's office. They were currently standing together in a corner of the office and waiting for the boss to join them. Max wasn't sure if they were allowed to sit down or take some of the chocolate truffles on the desk, and it didn't seem like John did either. Sherlock just looked bored.

Suddenly, the door to the office opened, and a man in a business suit walked in with a smile on his face. "Sherlock Holmes!" he greeted enthusiastically.

Sherlock nodded to him, his face expressionless. "Sebastian," he replied.

They shook hands, with Sebastian clasping Sherlock's extended hand with both of his own. "Howdy, buddy," he said. "How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

Sherlock didn't reply, his stony expression staying the same. From the tense set of his shoulders, it was fairly obvious that he and Sebastian hadn't gotten along well in the past. She could practically feel the distaste radiating from him.

"This is my _friend_ , John Watson," Sherlock told him. His tone made the hidden message clear: _see, I can make friends too._

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Friend?" he repeated.

John grimaced. "Colleague," he corrected.

Max resisted the urge to punch him.

Sebastian nodded as he shook John's hand. "Right," he agreed. He glanced at Sherlock, his expression smug for a second. _You still don't have any friends,_ he seemed to say.

It took half a second for Sherlock to gather himself. "And this is his friend, Maxine Arthur," he continued.

Sebastian extended a hand to Max. "Hello," Sebastian said.

"Hi," Max stated flatly. She didn't offer a handshake; she had only known Sherlock Holmes for a little more than an hour, but something about the way Sebastian treated him pissed her off. So no, she wasn't going to shake his hand.

There was an awkward silence in which Sebastian momentarily rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, grab a pew," Sebastian finally said as he sat down behind the desk. Sherlock took a seat on the opposite side, followed by Max and John. "D'you need anything? Coffee, water?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No," John added.

Max raised an eyebrow. "Can I have those truffles?" she asked.

Sebastian laughed. "Be my guest," he replied, pushing the bowl towards her. He nodded to his secretary, who had been standing in the doorway. "We're all sorted here, thanks."

The secretary left the room, and Sherlock nodded to Sebastian. "So, you're doing well," he commented. "You've been abroad a lot."

Sebastian shrugged. "Well, some," he agreed.

Sherlock scoffed. "Flying all the way around the world twice in a month?" he challenged.

Max and John blinked in surprise, but Sebastian just laughed. "Right, you're doing that thing," he said. He turned to the two of them. "We were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock muttered halfheartedly, like he was saying it out of habit.

Sebastian ignored him and continued talking to Max and John. "He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," he told them.

John nodded. "Yes, I've seen him do it," he agreed.

Sebastian sighed. "Put the wind up everybody," he continued. "We hated him."

Next to Max, Sherlock flinched, and she glanced in his direction. For a moment, there was an expression of undisguised pain present on his features; the next second it was gone, replaced by an icy face. But Max could see through the facade; his eyes seemed to have lost their sparkle, the one that could somehow bring his whole face alive with excitement. Even though he acted like Sebastian's words didn't bother him, she knew that he was hurting inside.

Wordlessly, Max held out a truffle.

Sherlock looked at the chocolate in surprise, then his eyes met hers. She gave him a small smile and held it closer to him. He hesitated, then took the truffle from her and ate it.

Meanwhile, Sebastian had continued talking, completely unaware of the silent conversation between Max and Sherlock. "You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night," he said, amused by the memories.

Sherlock grimaced. "I simply observed," he replied.

Sebastian grinned. "Go on, enlighten me," he challenged. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world- you're quite right. How could you tell?" He laughed. "You're gonna tell me there was a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan." Max raised an eyebrow, not impressed and slightly more annoyed.

"No, I-" Sherlock started.

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!" he exclaimed.

"... I was just chatting with your secretary outside," Sherlock said simply. "She told me."

Max and John both looked at him in confusion, knowing that he hadn't spoken a word to the secretary, but neither of them said anything. Sebastian laughed without humor, and Sherlock smiled back just as coldly.

But then laughter slid from Sebastian's face, and he gave Sherlock a small smile that actually seemed sincere. "I'm glad you could make it over," he told him. "We've had a break-in."

000

Sebastian led them across the trading floor, weaving his way through the countless pillars, screens, and cubicles, some which were occupied and some which weren't. Max was still holding the candy bowl, eating the truffles and occasionally passing some to Sherlock and John. "Sir William's office," Sebastian said. "The bank's former Chairman. The room's been left here like some sort of memorial. Someone broke in last night."

John frowned. "What did they steal?" he asked.

Sebastian turned around to lock eyes with them. "Nothing," he answered. "Just left a little message." They reached a closed door, and Sebastian let them in the room with his security card.

For the most part, it seemed like a normal office in Shad Sanderson bank: white and glassy. The only thing that stood out was the framed painting hanging on the wall, depicting a man in a suit; a neon yellow line had been spray-painted straight across his eyes, and on the wall to the left of the portrait was a squiggle in the same color. The paint had been slightly oversprayed, and it left blood-like trails down the wall.

"Oh," Max said.

Sherlock walked up to the wall, looking at the paint with a critical eye. Sebastian, Max, and John stood back, knowing full well that Sherlock could see more in that painting than they could.

"Max," Sherlock suddenly said. "Come here."

She looked up in surprise, and John had to nudge her forward. She walked up to him uncertainly. "Yeah?" she replied.

Sherlock held out a hand. "Truffle," he ordered.

Sighing, Max gave him a truffle.

000

A few minutes later, they were back in Sebastian's office. Sebastian was sitting at his desk, and the three of them were gathered around him, looking down at his computer. "Sixty seconds apart," he told them as he pulled up the security footage of Sir William's office.

Max looked at the picture curiously. For the most part, the office looked exactly like it had just a few moments ago, with just one exception: there was no paint. The time stamp read 23:33:01.

But then Sebastian went to the next image, taken at 23:34:01, and now the graffiti had been spray-painted on the painting. Nothing else in the office seemed to have been disturbed.

"That's creepy," Max declared.

Sebastian nodded. "Someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute," he summed up.

Sherlock frowned. "How many ways into that office?" he asked.

Sebastian grimaced. "Well, that's where this gets really interesting," he said.

He led them back to the reception area with the large reception desk, but this time they were behind the desk. He led them to a computer, where he pulled up the layout of the trading floor and the surrounding offices. Each door was colored, indicating the security status.

Sebastian turned to them. "Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here," he told them. "Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

Sherlock nodded. "That door didn't open last night," he agreed.

Sebastian grimaced. "There's a hole in our security," he said. "Find it and we'll pay you- five figures." He reached into his suit and pulled out a check. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, and there's a bigger one on its way."

But Sherlock just looked at him coldly. "I don't need an incentive, Sebastian," he told him. With that, he turned and walked away, his coat flaring out behind him.

Sebastian, Max, and John stood there in silence for a second, but then John cleared his throat awkwardly. "He's... uh... he's kidding you, obviously," he said. He held out his hand for the check. "Sh-shall I look after that for him?"

Max bit back a groan.

But Sebastian simply gave John the check. "Thanks," John told him. Sebastian walked off, presumably back to his office, leaving Max and John alone.

When he had turned the corner, Max turned to John and slapped him on the arm. "Hey!" John protested.

She glared at him. "What was that about?!" she exclaimed. "Sherlock said he-" But then she saw the number written out on the check, and her eyes widened. "Oh. _Oh._ Alright then." She grinned at him. "You know that this means you're taking me to dinner one day, right?"

John rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said.

000

Sherlock, meanwhile, had returned to Sir William's office and was taking pictures of the graffiti with his phone. Once he was satisfied, he slid his phone away.

He turned away and glanced out at the floor-to-ceiling windows, where he could see the Gherkin tower outside. He walked closer to the windows and pulled the blinds up, revealing a door that led out to a small balcony.

Sherlock opened the door and stepped onto the balcony. The wind this high up was fierce, but he didn't flinch. His gaze skimmed the London skyline for a moment, and then he looked at the very long drop to the ground, hundreds of feet below. He bit his lip thoughtfully, then turned back inside...

... only to see that Max had silently joined him in the room, still holding the truffles. She was standing in front of the graffiti, brow furrowed in thought; as he watched, she reached out and ran a hand along the spray paint, touching it as a blind person would run their hands along a page of Braille. It didn't seem like she had even noticed his presence.

"It could be some sort of logo," she said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Sherlock joined her by the painting, looking at the graffiti again. "Why do you say that?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I'm a graphic designer," she answered simply. "It's my job to demonstrate an idea by using images. If there's a logo in the design, it's generally always the biggest and brightest thing, so people notice it."

Suddenly, she heard Sherlock breathe in sharply, and she turned around to see him looking at the graffiti strangely. "Sherlock?" she asked. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock turned to her, his eyes bright. "You're right," he said.

Max blinked in surprise. "It's a logo?" she replied.

He scoffed. "Of course not," he told her.

She frowned. "Then what was I right about?" she demanded.

Sherlock turned to look at the trading floor outside the doors of the office. "Art is meant to be noticed," he stated. He clapped his hands together with a grin, any sign of his previous bad mood gone. "The game is on!"

With that, he left the office.

000

"... What's he doing?"

"I don't know. He just walked out of the office and started jumping up and down."

Max and John were leaning on the wall outside of Sir William's office, watching Sherlock as he made his way through the trading floor. It looked like he was dancing through the cubicles, ducking down beneath a desk and then popping up again a moment later, constantly keeping his eyes fixed on the painting. As they watched, he ducked back down and crab-walked sideways as he hurried past some of the cubicles, passing a group of traders in the process. The traders watched him with amused expressions, and it seemed like they were resisting the urge to laugh... or call the mental asylum.

"Did you say something to him?" John persisted.

She shrugged as she ate yet another truffle. By this point, the bowl was almost empty. "We were talking about... art?" she answered. "I don't know, sometimes it's hard to tell what he's talking about."

John sighed. "That's true," he muttered. "Can I have a truffle?"

Max shot him a poisonous look. "Can't you buy your own now?" she retorted.

She gave him one anyway.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was still making his way through the trading floor in the same fashion; by this point he had reached the far end of the floor. Max sighed as he scampered around, crab-walking and popping up from behind desks and then ducking back down. Still not breaking eye contact with the painting, he twirled around a column before backing towards an office. He stopped in the doorway, then wiggled about, trying to get a different angle.

Suddenly, he paused and headed into the office. Max lost sight of him for a few seconds, but he emerged a few seconds later. He stopped in front of the door for a moment, standing in front of the name card attached to it, then turned and walked towards them normally.

"I think he's done," Max commented.

Sherlock walked by without blinking an eye, apparently unfazed by the unconventional shuffling that he had done. "Let's go," he said.

Max and John hurried after him, with Max still holding the truffles. "I should probably give this back," she sighed, "but screw it." She shoved the remaining truffles into her pockets, then left the bowl on a table.

000

In a few minutes they were heading towards the escalators, with Max and John trailing behind Sherlock. "Two trips around the world this month," John said. "You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him."

Sherlock just smiled.

John gave him a look. "How did you know?" he asked.

"Did you see his watch?" Sherlock replied.

John raised an eyebrow. "His watch?" he repeated.

Max blinked. "Uh... it was from Breitling Chronometre," she reported. "Fairly new? I'm pretty sure the time was right, but-"

Sherlock nodded. "The date was wrong," he finished. "Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"Ah," Max realized.

John frowned. "Within a month, though?" he insisted. "How'd you get that part?"

Sherlock glanced at Max. "Repeat what you said," he ordered.

Max started on another truffle. "I really should stop," she commented. "It was fairly new from Breitling Chronometre?"

He nodded. "Exactly," he agreed. "It only came out this February."

John still seemed a bit bewildered, but he nodded. "Okay," he said. "So d'you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Got everything I need to know already, thanks," he replied.

John blinked. "Hmm?" he asked.

By then they reached the escalators, and they started their descent to the ground floor. "That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors," Sherlock explained. "We find the intended recipient and...?"

John nodded. "They'll lead us to the person who sent it," he finished.

Sherlock smirked. "Obvious," he said.

"Truffle, anyone?" Max interrupted.

Neither Sherlock nor John replied. Max huffed irritably and shoved one into each of their hands.

The escalator reached the ground floor, and they headed to the doors. "There's three hundred people up on the trading floor," John pointed out as he unwrapped his truffle. "Who was it meant for?"

Sherlock slipped his truffle into his pocket. "Pillars," he answered.

Max blinked. "Is that a name?" she asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Pillars and screens," he elaborated. "Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at 11:34 last night. That tells us a lot."

John raised an eyebrow. "Does it?" he asked.

They reached the revolving doors and headed through, emerging onto the street. "Traders come to work at all hours," Sherlock said. "Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight." He reached into his pocket and held up a name card reading _Edward Van Coon._ "Not many Van Coons in the phonebook."

Max gave him a look. "Did you take that from the door?" she challenged. Sherlock didn't reply. "Yeah, you took that from the door." She sighed. "Well, good luck."

John blinked. "You're not coming with us?" he asked.

She grimaced regretfully. "Sorry," she said. "This has been fun, but it's been two hours. I need to go home."

They stared at her in surprise, as if they hadn't realized that she would have to leave eventually. Then John smiled and gave her a hug. "It was nice to see you, Max," he told her. "Sorry we didn't get to talk much."

Max laughed. "Are you kidding me?!" she exclaimed. "This was awesome!" She pulled away and smiled. "I had a really good time."

John grinned. "Good," he said. "That's good. Y'know what, I'll call you later."

She nudged him playfully. "You'd better," she replied.

And then she turned to Sherlock, who had been standing quietly behind John. They were silent for a second, but then Max smiled at him. "It was nice meeting you, Sherlock," she said.

Sherlock nodded to her. "Likewise," he replied.

Max began to say something else, but she thought better of it. "I... I'll see you around," she told him. She smiled at John, then turned and walked away.

John watched her go, but Sherlock was already moving onto the next order of business. He stepped onto the curb and stuck his hand out into the busy street.

"Taxi!" he shouted.


	3. Urban Bloodlust Frenzy

A few days had passed since the investigation at Shad Sanderson Bank, and Max was reading in her bed when her phone beeped. Groaning, she reached over to the nightstand and checked her phone.

 _Come to Baker St immediately._

 _SH_

Max glanced at the time- 9:45 in the morning. She had no clue what Sherlock wanted at 9:45 in the morning, or for that matter how he had even gotten her number, but if he was texting her it was probably important. Sighing, she got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.

000

"There's been a second murder."

Max paused in the doorway of Sherlock and John's flat. "There was a first one?" she asked.

Sherlock hadn't looked up at her arrival; he was sitting in the same armchair that he had been in the other day, and his eyes were closed in thought. "Of course," he said. "Van Coon, and then Lukis."

She walked into the flat and sat in John's seat. "Van Coon, as in the bank guy?" she replied. "Since when did he die?"

Still not looking opening his eyes, Sherlock pushed a laptop in her direction. Two articles were open: one dated from the day at the bank described Edward Van Coon's suicide in his locked bedroom, and another article written yesterday spoke about how freelance journalist Brian Lukis had been found murdered in his apartment with no apparent entryway into his flat.

Max turned away from the laptop and looked up at Sherlock. "You lost me," she said.

This finally caused him to open his eyes, and he turned to her. "Detective Inspector Dimmock claims that Van Coon committed suicide, but he didn't," he told her. "The evidence was all over the flat- the fatal bullet wound was on the right side of Van Coon's head, but he was clearly left-handed. Therefore, not a suicide. Of course, Dimmock realized that I was right far too late to save himself from embarrassment, but that's beside the point. Days later, Lukis died in a locked room up high, much like Van Coon. Both men were found with a black origami flower next to them.

"There was no way to get into either flat... besides the window. Our killer must have climbed into Lukis's flat through the window. That was also how he got to Van Coon; personally, I swung in through the balcony."

Max gave him a look. "You broke into Van Coon's flat?" she asked.

Sherlock gave her a look. "How else was I supposed to get in?" he replied.

She shrugged. "Fair enough," she admitted. "I'm assuming the killer climbed into the bank to paint the yellow stuff?"

He nodded. "Exactly," he agreed. "John and I traced Lukis's footsteps back to the West Kensington Library, and we found the same message from the bank sprayed on the shelves right where he would have seen it." He leaned forward, eyes glinting dangerously. "Both men saw this message and both of them died within hours of seeing it, with a black origami flower next to them. Something connects the two of them, but I don't know what. The answer is in the message, the cipher."

Without warning, Sherlock held up a piece of paper; it took Max a second to recognize it as a picture of the graffiti in the bank. "You're an artist," he stated. "Can you recognize the painter's style?"

Max shook her head. "If I knew, I would have told you on Tuesday," she told him. It seemed like Sherlock was about to say something, but Max held up a finger to silence him. "But... I might know a guy. He's a painter... of a sort. I'd rather not have to go to him, but if there's no other way I can probably get him to talk to you."

"Good mor- Max?! What are you doing here?!"

Both Max and Sherlock turned around to see John walking into the room, wearing a robe and still rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Hey, Johnny!" Max greeted. "Sherlock called me over."

It seemed like John was extremely confused, but Sherlock was already standing up and heading towards the door. "Come on, John," he said. "We're going to meet a friend of Max's."

000

In a few minutes, the trio was walking through the large square in front of the National Gallery. Max was in the lead, making her way through the large crowd as they neared the Gallery.

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John," Sherlock was telling John as they walked behind Max. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to that PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

John gave him a look. "Yes, okay," he agreed. "But...?"

Sherlock huffed irritably. "But it's all computer generated," he finished. "Electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

John glanced around them. "Where are we headed?" he asked.

Sherlock grimaced. "Max knows somebody: a painter," he answered. "I need to ask some advice."

It took a second for John to realize what Sherlock had just said, but when he did he almost burst out laughing. "What?!" he exclaimed. "Sorry?!"

Sherlock shot him a dark look. "You heard me perfectly," he said. "I'm not saying it again."

But John just continued to stare at him in disbelief. "You need advice?" he repeated.

Sherlock sighed. "On painting, yes," he said. "I need to talk to an expert."

John nodded. "Right," he replied. He pointed to the looming building of the National Gallery. "We're going in there, then?"

Max turned around and grinned. "Johnny boy, if you want an expert on spray paint, you don't go to a museum," she told him. She nodded towards a dark alley to the side of the building. "We're going _there."_

John nodded. "Ah," he stated.

000

It didn't take them long to reach the back of the building. A young man was standing in front of a solid grey door with a can of spray paint in each of his hands and a bag of more cans by his feet; on the door was an almost- finished image of a policeman holding a rifle, but instead of a nose there was a pig's snout. As they approached, he was in the process of adding the finishing touches.

"Part of a new exhibition," he commented as they walked up next to him.

Sherlock grimaced. "... Interesting," he stated. His tone said the exact opposite.

Max elbowed him and approached the painter. "What are you calling it?" she asked.

He shook his paint can for a moment before returning to his art. "Urban Bloodlust Frenzy," he answered.

"Catchy," John commented.

But everyone ignored him. Max nodded to the artist, a grudging respect on her face. "Raz," she greeted.

He nodded back. "Max," he replied.

John looked from Max to Raz. "How do you... er... know each other?" he asked suspiciously.

Max sighed. "Art contest back in high school," she said. "He was first, I was second."

Raz shrugged. "What can I say?" he replied. "I outshone the competition."

Max looked at him indignantly. "It was a one point difference!" she protested.

He smirked. "I still won," he pointed out.

She huffed, and for a second it seemed like she was going to protest, but then she sighed. "Alright, you won," she admitted. "But that's not why I came here. My friend needs to ask you something."

Raz was quiet as he considered, but then he sighed. "I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner," he said. He glanced at Sherlock. "Can we do this while I'm workin'?"

Sherlock held out his phone, displaying the picture of the paint from the bank. Raz tossed one of his cans to John, who caught it even though he seemed a bit confused about what was going on. Now with a free hand, Raz took the phone and looked at the picture. "Know the author?" Sherlock asked.

Raz shrugged. "Recognize the paint," he answered. "It's like Michigan; hard-core propellant. I'd say zinc."

Sherlock frowned. "What about the symbols?" he insisted. "D'you recognize them?"

Raz squinted at the cipher suspiciously. "Not even sure it's a proper language," he said flippantly.

Sherlock glared at him. "Two men have been murdered, Raz," he told him. "Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."

Raz looked speculative. "What, and this is all you've got to go on?" he asked. "It's hardly much now, is it?"

A look of annoyance flickered over Sherlock's face. "Are you gonna help us or not?" he demanded.

Raz shrugged. "I'll ask around," he told them.

Sherlock nodded. "Somebody _must_ know something about it," he said, even though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself of the fact.

"Oi!"

The four of them whirled around to see that two Community Support Officers were hurrying towards them. There was no question that they had seen the Urban Bloodlust Frenzy and Raz's bag of paint cans. "I thought you said we had two minutes!" Max protested.

"Well, I was wrong!" Raz retorted.

Sherlock grabbed his phone from Raz and took off, followed closely by Max. Raz dropped his spray can and kicked his bag of spares towards John, who was still holding the other can; then, without a word, the painter took off after Max and Sherlock. John stayed where he was, absolutely confused about what was going on.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" one of the officers demanded as they reached him. "This gallery is a listed public building!"

John blinked as he turned to face the officers. "No, no, wait, wait," he said. "It's not _me_ who painted that. I was just holding this for..."

He turned around and saw that the others had run off.

The officer kicked open the bag, and Raz's spare paint cans were revealed. He raised an eyebrow at John, not amused. "Bit of an enthusiast, are we?" he asked.

There was no way he was going to be able to talk himself out of this.

000

"That was a close one," Max said.

She, Sherlock, and Raz were a few blocks away from the National Gallery, all of them slightly flushed from running. Max pushed her disheveled hair out of her face and looked around. "Where's John?" she asked.

Sherlock shrugged, not concerned by the sudden disappearance of his flatmate. "He probably went the long way around," he answered. "We'll meet up with him at the flat." He turned to Raz. "You'll ask around?"

Raz nodded. "Sure thing," he agreed. "I'll text Max if I find something."

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "I need to go," he declared suddenly. Without another word, he turned and walked towards the curb, his hand raised for a cab.

Max sighed. "I'd better go with him," she told Raz. She nodded to him. "It was... nice... to see you again, Raz."

Raz smirked. "Nice to see you too, Max," he replied. He turned and walked away, his hands in his pockets and whistling casually.

000

Some time later, Max was curled up in John's armchair in Baker St as Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace. The wall above it was almost completely covered with pictures of various ciphers and pictograms that all pretty much looked like squiggles. Both of them were silent as Sherlock read a book on old ciphers and Max looked it up online.

Suddenly, the door slammed, and Max looked up to see John storming in, looking extremely angry. Max's eyes widened in surprise, but Sherlock didn't even look up from his book. "You've been a while," he said.

John glared at Sherlock, looking full well like he wanted to punch him. "Yeah, well, you know how it is," he snapped. "Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?"

Max blinked. "Custody sergeants?" she repeated incredulously.

But John just laughed dryly, continuing on as if he hadn't heard her. "Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet..." he continued. "And I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."

Max looked at him in disbelief. "Why?" she demanded.

John turned his angry gaze to her. "The officers found me _with Raz's spray paint!_ " he exclaimed.

Max groaned. "Oh God," she muttered.

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his book for the first time. The expression on his face told them that he hadn't heard a word that either of them had just said.

John's gaze darkened. "Me, Sherlock," he snapped. "In court on Tuesday. _They're giving me an ASBO!_ "

But Sherlock had already turned back to his book. "Good, fine," he muttered absentmindedly.

John turned to Max. "You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time?" he demanded.

Max scoffed. "He's not my pal," she said. "He won't listen to me, anyway... Don't you have some police friends who can get you out of this?"

Suddenly, before John could retort, Sherlock slammed his book shut and turned to them. "This symbol, I still can't place it," he told them. John started to take off his jacket, but suddenly Sherlock was there, pushing it back on him. "No, I need you to go to the police station-"

"Oi, oi, oi!" John protested.

"- and ask about the journalist, Lukis," Sherlock finished.

John groaned. "Oh, Jesus!" he exclaimed.

Sherlock turned to Max and pulled her off of the armchair, pushing her out the door with John. "Go with him," he ordered. "His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements."

Max raised an eyebrow as Sherlock grabbed his coat. "We're trying a new angle?" she asked.

The three of them left the flat and headed downstairs, still mostly being pushed by Sherlock. "Until Raz gets back to us there's nothing we can do about the paint," Sherlock said simply. "Gonna see Van Coon's PA. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll collide."

By that point they had were out on the street, and Sherlock turned and walked away, towards Shad Sanderson Bank. Max and John shared a look. "He never stops, does he?" Max asked.

John scoffed. "Never," he agreed. He turned to the street just as a cab turned the corner, and he flagged it down.

On instinct, Max glanced across the street and saw that an Asian woman was looking at them, wearing dark sunglasses and taking a picture of something in their direction. Max's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "John..." she warned.

He nodded. "I see her too," he agreed.

She gave him a look. "Does this stuff usually happen when you work with Sherlock?" she asked.

John was silent as he considered that, but then he shrugged. "Yeah," he admitted.

The cab pulled up to them, and John opened the door. "Scotland Yard," he requested.

"Right," the cabbie agreed.

Max and John clambered into the cab, and once the door was shut Max turned her gaze back to where the woman had been standing...

... but she was nowhere to be seen.

"I don't have a good feeling about that," Max commented.

John grimaced as the cab pulled away from Baker St. "Me neither, Max," he said. "Me neither."


	4. The Lucky Cat

A short cab ride later, Max and John found themselves at the New Scotland Yard. It was the first time that Max had been here, so she couldn't help but look around as DI Dimmock led them to his desk. John, however, seemed well acquainted with the building- probably a side effect of being friends with Sherlock.

The Detective Inspector himself seemed a bit skeptical as he pulled out a box of Lukis's belongings and started rummaging through it, looking for the diary that they had requested. Max hadn't met Dimmock before- she only knew about him from what Sherlock had told her- and now that she was face to face with him, she could see why he hadn't listened to a word of advice that Sherlock had given him; he was a proud man, too proud to take anybody else's word for anything.

Dimmock cleared his throat. "Your friend-" he started.

John sighed. "Listen, whatever you say, I'm behind you one hundred percent," he told him.

"- he's an arrogant sod," Dimmock finished.

John was silent for a second, but then he chuckled. "Well, _that_ was mild," he commented. "People say a lot worse than that."

Max _hmm_ ed thoughtfully. "I can imagine," she agreed.

Dimmock reached into the box and pulled out a small notebook, slightly bigger than the size of Max's palm. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he asked. "The journalist's diary?"

Max took the diary before John could grab it and flipped through it. The book fell open to reveal a boarding pass from Dalian DLC to London LHR on Zhuang Airlines; a glance at the date on the ticket told her that the trip had been recent. "Dalian DLC and London LHR... those are airports," she realized. She glanced at John. "Lukis went to China. And Van Coon was in charge of the Hong Kong market."

John nodded. "Yeah, there's... uh... there's definitely something there," he agreed. He held out a hand to Dimmock. "Thanks. We'll be going now."

Dimmock shook John's hand, then nodded politely to Max. "I suppose I'll probably be seeing both of you around, with the case and all?" he asked both of them.

Max and John shared a look, and they shrugged in sync. "Probably," Max agreed.

000

Within a few minutes, Max and John were wandering through the streets of Chinatown, both of them bent over Lukis's diary. "He said he came here after he got back from his trip," Max said. "Why, though? He spent a few weeks in China, and the first thing he does when he gets back is to go to China _town_? Did he miss it or something?"

John's brow furrowed as he skimmed the page that they were currently reading. "No, no, look here," he told her. "He said he dropped something off- he wrote down an address here."

Max leaned closer. "We're on the right street," she realized. "I think it should be the building over- OOF!"

Both Max and John stumbled as they rammed into someone who had been walking in the opposite direction as them. It took Max a second to recognize Sherlock, his curly hair a mess and his coat a bit crooked. From the look in his eyes it was clear that he was onto something.

"Hey, Sherlock!" Max greeted. "We found-"

But the detective ignored her and launched right into a rapid-fire explanation. "Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died- whatever was hidden inside that case," he told them, not even taking a breath. "I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information-"

"Sherlock-" John started.

"-credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here-"

"Hold up-" Max attempted.

"-somewhere in this street, somewhere near. I don't know where, but-"

"That shop over there," John interrupted, pointing to a shop across the street. A sign above the door said that it was called the Lucky Cat.

Finally, Sherlock snapped out of it and gave John a look. "How can you tell?" he asked.

John held up the diary. "Lukis's diary," he answered. "He was here too. He wrote down the address." With that, he turned and headed towards the shop.

Sherlock blinked. "Oh," he said. Still seeming a bit bewildered, he turned and followed after John.

Max huffed. "Nice to see you too," she muttered.

000

"Okay, this is really creepy," Max whispered.

The three of them had crossed the street and entered the Lucky Cat, and Max was glancing around the shop. It seemed to be mostly geared towards tourists, filled with Chinese teacups and dishes, paper fans with Chinese designs, and other Chinese merchandise. There was an overwhelming amount of golden decorative cats, standing on their hand legs with one front paw raised. The paws on some of the cats were waving back and forth as their eyes stared blankly into the distance. An old lady stood behind the counter.

Max wandered off towards the plates displayed on the wall, looking at them thoughtfully- it seemed like they were the most expensive items in the shop. Sherlock followed her, probably thinking the same thing, and John headed towards the front to look around.

She reached out and picked up a plate, flipping it over to see the label and frowning at what she saw. "Sherlock," she called quietly. The detective looked in her direction, and she held up the plate so he could see it. He walked over to her and leaned over her shoulder to read the label, his chest almost right up against her back: _Made in the USA._ "This isn't it."

"Dammit," Sherlock muttered. His words were right in Max's ear, and she tensed up, surprised at how close he was standing. It seemed like Sherlock noticed that he had startled her, because he stepped back and started walking through the shop, looking for something else that might be linked to the murders.

It wasn't until he stepped away that Max realized that it felt strangely empty without him behind her.

"You want lucky cat?"

Max and Sherlock turned around to see that the shopkeeper was holding out one of the cats to John, who looked extremely awkward. Max bit her lip to hold back her laughter, and even Sherlock seemed amused. "No, thanks," John replied. "No."

That just caused the shopkeeper to shake the cat in his direction. "Ten pound," she told him. "Ten pound!"

John cleared his throat, trying to avoid eye contact. "No," he said.

"I think your wife, she will like!" the shopkeeper insisted.

He shook his head. "No, thank you," he stated. His tone said that his decision was final.

But it seemed like the shopkeeper was determined to make a sale, because she turned to Max and Sherlock. "And you?" she asked, gesturing to Sherlock. "Your girlfriend there, she likes!"

Max's eyes widened, and she turned to look at Sherlock, who for once looked equally dumbstruck. "Uh... well... we actually-" Max started.

"We're not dating," Sherlock interrupted coldly.

The shop fell silent as they all turned back to looking at the merchandise in the shop, but then John cleared his throat. "Guys," he said. Sherlock and Max headed over to him and saw that he was looking at the label on the bottom of a teacup; there was a Chinese symbol that was exactly like the one that had been painted in the bank.

"That label there..." John trailed off.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I see it," he agreed.

"Exactly the same as the cipher," John added.

Max frowned. "But what does it mean?" she asked.

The three of them stared at the label for a second, but Sherlock's eyes widened. "I've got it," he muttered.

John blinked. "Sorry, what?" he said.

Sherlock turned away and started walking towards the door. "Let's go," he told them. Max and John glanced at each other, then hurried after him.

000

"It's an ancient number system," Sherlock said as soon as they exited the shop. "Hangzhou. These days, only street traders use it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library, numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect."

They walked past a grocer's stall where some fruits and vegetables were displayed in boxes. Max pulled them to a stop and pointed to the handwritten signs stating the price of each item in both English and Hangzhou. "Street traders like these?" she asked.

Sure enough, there was the squiggle that had been on the wall next to the painting in the bank. John reached out and adjusted the sign so that they could see the English translation. "It's a fifteen!" he realized. "What we thought was the artist's tag- it's a number fifteen!"

Sherlock nodded. "And the blindfold- the horizontal line?" he reminded them. "That was a number as well." He pointed to another sign, where there was a horizontal line with the English translation underneath it. "The Chinese number one, John."

John grinned. "We've found it!" he exclaimed.

Max smiled happily. "We're halfway there," she said.

Sherlock took one last glance at the vegetable stand, then walked away. John turned away to follow him, as did Max, but her eyes widened when she saw the same Chinese lady who had been watching them at Baker St. The lady was standing across the street, still holding a camera and aiming it at them. _Is she following us?_

"Hey, Max!" John called. "Are you coming?'

Max turned to see that Sherlock had already walked away, and John was hesitating, waiting for her. She glanced back in the direction of the lady, but she was gone already.

"Yeah, coming," she replied. She cast one more suspicious look across the street, then turned and followed the other two.

000

After a mixture of arguing, pleading, and an almost-fistfight, Max and John had been able to convince Sherlock to take a break for lunch; they had been on their feet for two hours, Max had pointed out, and normal human beings needed a break after running around for that long. So that was how the three of them found themselves at a restaurant across the street from the Lucky Cat, seated at a window table so that they could stake out the shop while eating.

"Two men travel back from China," John said. "Both head straight for the Lucky Cat Emporium. What did they see?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not what they saw," he corrected. "It's what they both brought back in those suitcases."

John nodded. "And you don't mean duty-free," he realized.

Max, who was sitting next to John, leaned across the table to where Sherlock was sitting, scrawling something on his napkin. "What are you writing?" she asked. Sherlock held up the napkin momentarily, giving her just enough time to see the Hangzhou numbers with the English translations before he put it back on the table and continued writing.

A waitress brought over two plates of food, putting one in front of John and the other in front of Max. "Thank you," John said before the waitress walked away. He glanced over at Max's plate. "What did you get?"

She picked up the pair of chopsticks next to her and tried to hold them properly; when that didn't work, she sighed and grabbed a fork instead. "Roasted duck," she answered. "You?"

John shrugged as he took a fork. "Fried shrimp with walnuts," he replied.

Max grabbed a shrimp from his plate and ate it. "Interesting," she commented. "I like it."

"Think about what Sebastian told us about Van Coon," Sherlock interrupted before they got completely off-topic. "About how he stayed afloat in the market."

John nodded. "Lost five million..." he started.

"... made it back in a week," Sherlock finished.

Max blinked. "What?" she asked.

John shrugged. "We went to visit Sebastian after we found Van Coon's body," he explained. "He told us a bit more about him." Max nodded.

Sherlock pointed across the street to the Lucky Cat. "That's how he made such easy money," he told them.

Max frowned. "You're saying that he was a smuggler," she summed up.

Sherlock nodded. "A guy like him- it would have been perfect," he pointed out. "Business man making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same- a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off."

John frowned. "But why did they die?" he asked. "I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?"

It seemed like Sherlock hadn't thought of that, because he paused and leaned back in his seat as he thought about that. But then he smiled happily. "What if one of them was light-fingered?" he suggested.

Max raised an eyebrow. "As in, they stole something?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Something from the hoard," he agreed.

John's eyes widened. "And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both," he concluded. "Right."

They fell silent for a few seconds as Max and John worked on their food, but Sherlock stared stoically out the window at the shop, as if he would get all the answers by just looking at the storefront. _Knowing Sherlock, he just might,_ Max thought.

"Aren't you going to eat something?" Max asked.

Sherlock scoffed. "Digesting slows me down," he answered.

Max was about to say something else about how digestion also prevented people from starving to death, but Sherlock suddenly stiffened. "When was the last time that it rained?" he wanted to know.

Before either of them could reply, he stood up and ran out of the restaurant.

"Sherlock, what the-" Max started, but then she groaned. "We should probably go after him, right?"

John sighed. "Probably," he said.

They both looked down at their meals regretfully, then got up and followed Sherlock out the door.

000

By the time they reached Sherlock, he had already crossed the street to the building next to the Lucky Cat. He was crouching in front of the door and fingering a Yellow Pages phone directory that was leaning against the wall. It was in a plastic wrapper that still had drops of water on it, presumably from the rain.

"It's been here since Monday," Sherlock told them.

He stood up and rang the doorbell. Max glanced at the label and saw that the flat belonged to someone named Soo Lin Yao.

Sherlock only waited for a few seconds; when nobody answered the door, he turned and walked down the alleyway to the side of the flat. Max and John followed him. "No one's been in that flat for at least three days," Sherlock told them.

John shrugged. "Could've been on holiday," he commented.

They reached the back of the building, and Sherlock pointed up at the window. "Do you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" he challenged.

Max glanced up the wall. It was made of brick, and there was a metal fire escape that led up to an open window: Soo Lin's. Without warning, Sherlock jumped up and grabbed at the end of the fire escape, lowering the ladder. He climbed up to the window and clambered inside the flat, but before Max or John could follow him the ladder swung back to the horizontal position.

"Oh, great," Max muttered.

John groaned. " _Sherlock!_ " he shouted angrily. There was no response from the flat.

Max glanced up at the fire escape speculatively. "I don't think I can reach that," she said. She looked down at John. "You definitely can't."

He glared at her. "Thanks," he replied sarcastically. "Let's go around to the front; maybe Sherlock will be in a good mood and actually let us in this time."

The two of them headed back to the front of the apartment. "What do you mean, _this time?_ " Max asked.

John sighed. "When we went to Van Coon's flat he left me outside," he answered. "He didn't let me in for a good ten minutes... and by that point he had already found the body."

By this point, they had reached the front of the building, and John knocked on the door loudly. "D'you think maybe you could let me in this time?!" he called. "Max would like to get inside too, y'know!"

No response.

Max rang the doorbell.

Still no response.

"I don't think he even realized that we didn't follow him in," she commented.

John groaned and pushed open the letterbox. "Can you _not_ keep doing this, please?!" he yelled into it.

Max could hear Sherlock say something, but she couldn't make out the individual words. "Could you hear what he said?" she asked John.

"What?!" John shouted to Sherlock.

There were some more words from Sherlock, but it didn't help. " _What_ are you saying?!" John attempted.

No response.

John turned away from the letterbox. "I'm wasting my breath," he told Max.

Max sighed and leaned down to speak into the letterbox. "Hey, are you still there?!" she called.

"Of course he is, he's just ignoring us!" John retorted. He started pacing on the doorstep, then turned back to the door and rang the doorbell again, this time a few seconds longer than necessary. "He's being an arsehole, as usual."

Max looked at the letterbox sadly, then sighed and sat down on the doorstep.

000

Meanwhile, Sherlock was in Soo Lin's flat, eying a free-standing folding screen in the corner of the bedroom. All the evidence he had seen so far indicated that Soo Lin had left the flat and hadn't returned, and that the person who had killed Van Coon and Lukis was in the flat at this very moment. But where...

Cautiously, he walked towards the screen and pulled it back, expecting to see a person hiding there. But the only thing behind the screen was two stuffed toys on the bedside table.

What...?

Suddenly a long silk scarf was around his beck, and he was being pulled backwards. Within a matter of seconds he was on the floor, and his attacker- dressed in all black- was using the scarf to strangle him.

Desperately, he tried to grab at the scarf to free himself; he was able to work it loose enough that he could shout, but not enough for him to get a full breath of air. "John!" he croaked. "John! Max!"

000

" _Any_ time you want to include us!" John shouted outside the flat.

There was a muffled thud that seemed to have come from inside the flat, and Max turned around to eye the door warily. "Did you hear something?" she asked.

John scoffed. "Why would he say anything?!" he exclaimed angrily. "It's not like he's going to let us in!" He started pacing irritably. "No, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone-" He flipped open the letterbox angrily and shoved his face right up next to it. "-because no one else can compete with my _massive intellect!"_ He snapped the letterbox closed.

Max sighed. "That was slightly harsh," she told him. John raised an eyebrow at her, as if daring her to say more, and she rolled her eyes. "Alright, fine. You have a point."

000

Suddenly, just as he was about to lose consciousness, the scarf loosened around Sherlock's throat. He choked and coughed, but before he could do much else, his attacker turned and ran off; from the metal clambering noises, it sounded like he had used the fire escape.

Still coughing, Sherlock sat up and loosened his own scarf so that he could take a deep breath of air. It took him a few seconds to feel steady, but then he noticed something on the ground next to him, something that hadn't been there before.

A black origami flower.

000

"What if we break down the door?" Max suggested.

John gave her a look. "We would get arrested," he answered. He sighed. "Look, let's just go. Sherlock will find us back at the flat and-"

The door opened.

Max and John turned around to see Sherlock walking out of Soo Lin's flat, looking slightly awkward. His hair was a bit tousled, but that was probably because he climbed into the flat through the window.

"About time!" Max exclaimed.

Sherlock cleared his throat as he stepped out of the flat and closed the door behind him. "The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's staring to smell," he reported, his voice sounding rough.

Max frowned in concern. "Are you alright?" she asked. "You sound a bit funny."

He shook his head. "I'm fine," he answered, even though his voice still sounded strange. "Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

John raised an eyebrow. "Somebody?" he repeated.

Sherlock nodded. "Soo Lin Yao," he clarified. "We have to find her."

Max glanced at the flat. "Sherlock, if she left her flat, I doubt she _wants_ to be found," she pointed out.

He knelt down and picked up a folded envelope that had fallen onto the doorstep. He opened it and glanced at the back, then held it up to them. "Maybe we could start with this," he said.

The two of them leaned forward to read the envelope. "Soo Lin- please ring me and tell me you're okay- Andy," Max read. She glanced at the bottom right hand corner, where the logo for the National Antiquities Museum was stamped. "Oh."

With that, Sherlock turned and started walking away. Max and John hurried after him. "Are you sure you're alright?" John asked. "You've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?"

Sherlock coughed. "I'm fine," he answered.

Max frowned at him. "You really don't sound like it," she said. "Do you need to take a break or something?"

" _I'm fine!"_


	5. Spray Paint and Train Tracks

"When was the last time you saw her?" Sherlock demanded.

Max watched as the detective paced back and forth in front of a display case filled with clay teapots. She, Sherlock, and John had traced down Andy in the National Antiquities Museum. Once they said that they were looking for Soo Lin, it had been fairly easy to get him to talk with them.

Andy was currently watching Sherlock pacing, looking a bit intimidated. Max didn't blame him; after all, Sherlock didn't necessarily make the best first impressions. "Three days ago," he answered. "Um, here at the museum. Just left her work unfinished."

Sherlock didn't reply right away. Instead, he looked at the nearby displays, one case containing jade figurines and another displaying a piece of artwork. There was a momentary awkward silence, but then Max cleared her throat. "Uh, and you don't have any way to contact her?" she asked.

"Of course not. If he had her phone number why would he leave a note at her flat?" Sherlock retorted, before Andy could reply.

Max grimaced. "Right," she agreed. "Obviously."

Sherlock suddenly turned around to look at Andy, his eyes sharp. "What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?" he asked.

000

The lights flickered on in the storage room in the basement, and Andy led them in. Max decided to let him lead; if things started coming to life because of an ancient Egyptian tablet, she most definitely wasn't going first. Or second, for that matter.

 _You've been watching too many movies, Max,_ she told herself. _Stop thinking about Night of the Museum._

She took a deep breath and followed after Sherlock and John.

"This is really creepy," Max commented as they walked further into the basement. The entire place was completely deserted besides the four of them. They were currently in a long, plain hallway that seemed to stretch on forever. One wall had handles at even intervals.

Andy walked up to the handles and turned one of them, causing the wall on one side to move aside. Slowly, a gap formed, revealing that the wall was actually made of shelves that had been stacked side-by-side. "She does this demonstration for the tourists," Andy told them. "A... a tea ceremony." Artifacts were stored on either side of the gap. "Her teapots-"

"Sherlock?" Max interrupted.

She, John, and Andy turned to see that Sherlock had wandered off; instead of looking at the teapots, he was staring at something further down the hall. John hurried up to him, followed by Max and then Andy. He was looking up at the statue of a nude woman. "Sherlock, what-" Max started, but then she saw what he was looking at: Hangzhou characters in yellow, spray- painted on the statue. Fifteen and one.

"Oh," Max said.

000

They spent a few hours in the museum, but they didn't find anything beyond the graffiti on the statue. By the time they headed out of the museum, night had fallen.

Sherlock scowled as they walked down the steps. "We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," he told them, obviously unhappy with how the case was progressing.

John scoffed. "If she's still alive," he pointed out.

"Max! Sherlock!"

The three of them turned around to see a familiar figure hurrying up to them: Raz. John groaned. "Oh, look who it is," he grumbled. Max could literally feel his spirits plummet.

Raz grinned. "Hiya, Max," he greeted.

Max nodded to him, but otherwise ignored his greeting. "Do you have anything for us?" she asked.

He smirked. "Yeah," he answered. He nodded to Sherlock. "You'll like it. C'mon."

The new information seemed to lighten Sherlock's mood, and he hurried after Raz with his usual endless energy. Max and John shared a look, then followed him.

000

In a few minutes they were walking across the Hungerford Bridge, with Raz and Sherlock in the lead. "Tuesday morning," John attempted as they walked. He glared at the back of Raz's head. "All you've gotta do is turn up and say the bag was yours."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Forget about your court date," he snapped.

It seemed like John was about to protest, but then he thought better of it. He didn't say anything for the rest of the walk.

Max patted him on the head.

000

It didn't take them long to reach their destination: the South Bank Skate Park. Max looked around curiously. The entire place seemed to be in some sort of undercroft, and there were half-pipes and other ramps scattered around the park, mostly made of wood. There were a handful of skaters and bikers on the ramps. "Dude, that was rad!" a girl shouted off in the distance.

Raz led them across the undercroft, not even pausing to look at the scenery. Instead, he headed straight towards the walls on the far side of the park; as expected for a skate park, every little bit of surface had been covered by layers upon layers of spray paint. Most of the colors clashed horribly, and just looking at the overlapping designs was dizzying. "If you want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, isn't it?" Sherlock commented dryly.

Max frowned as she looked up at the imposing wall of spray paint. "How are you even supposed to find anything here?" she grumbled.

John, who was still in a bad mood, didn't say anything.

Surprisingly, it actually seemed like Raz knew what he was looking for. "There," he said. "I spotted it earlier."

He pointed to a spot on the wall, and then she saw it: yellow Chinese characters. They had already been mostly painted over by other symbols, but the little bits that they could see were unmistakable.

"They _have_ been here," Sherlock muttered, more to himself than the others. He turned to Raz. "And that's the exact same paint?"

Raz nodded. "Yeah," he answered.

Sherlock turned to Max and John, his eyes bright with energy even though it was getting late. "If we're going to decipher this code, we're going to need to look for more evidence," he told them. "We'll split up, search nearby for more paint."

Max frowned. "That's going to take time," she said. "Raz, any suggestions?"

Raz shrugged. "The train tracks are probably your best bet," he offered. "Not as much paint as here, but it's worth a shot. Good luck out there." He shook hands with Sherlock, then pulled Max into a hug.

"Oof!" she exclaimed, startled.

But it didn't seem like Raz noticed, and if he did, he didn't say anything. "Anything else you need, y'know where to find me!" he told her.

Max nodded as she awkwardly extracted herself from the hug. "Right," she agreed. "I'll see you around."

Raz gave them a sarcastic salute, then turned and walked away.

"Pleasant fellow," John commented dryly. "I'm gonna strangle him the next time I see him."

000

Train tracks were a creepy place to be at night.

The dim light from Max's phone was the only illumination that she had as she walked along the train tracks, looking around for any sign of the yellow spray paint. So far, she hadn't had any luck.

Nobody else was in the area, not that Max had expected otherwise. That, as well as the sinister shadows that flickered around the edges of her light, made her surroundings look like a scene straight out of a horror movie. It wouldn't be completely unexpected for a serial killer to jump out of nowhere and murder her.

 _Well, Sherlock would be glad that he has a case,_ she thought grimly.

Max shuddered, trying to keep her mind from going in that direction. _Happy thoughts,_ she instructed. _Think happy thoughts. Sunshine, grassy meadows, rainbows..._

She approached a maintenance shed by the side of the tracks. Her hopes began to rise, but a glance at the wall told her that it was bare. "No spray paint here," she muttered. Sighing, she walked around the corner of the shed and was about to check the other walls when-

BAM!

Max stumbled backwards as she collided with someone. "What the-" she started, but then she realized who she had just ran into. "We've really got to stop meeting like this."

Just as he had in Chinatown, Sherlock offered no apology for almost knocking her over, or any words of greeting. "Did you find anything yet?" he demanded.

She shook her head. "Nothing," she answered. "Sherlock-"

Without waiting for her to finish, Sherlock walked towards the train tracks. "There has to be something," he said, more to himself than to her. "If they're trying to leave a message they'll put it somewhere where people can see it, so _where is it?_ "

Max shrugged. "Maybe it's not a message," she suggested halfheartedly.

Sherlock gave her an irritated look. "What else would it be?" he retorted. She sighed. He started walking alongside the tracks, continuing the search.

Of course, Max knew that she should head in the opposite direction so that they could cover more ground. But just thinking about going off on her own again brought back memories of countless horror movies, and she shuddered.

She didn't need any more encouragement than that to hurry after Sherlock.

He didn't say anything when she caught up to him; she wouldn't be surprised if he had already known what she would do. And for some reason, it meant a lot to her that he had let her stay with him, especially when she had expected him to tell her to keep searching on her own.

But the thing was, she didn't really know what he would do; she didn't know _him_. And she had a feeling that nobody else could say that they knew him either, not even John.

They walked in silence; Max knew that was how Sherlock preferred to work, and she didn't mind. Trying to make conversation while walking next to train tracks in the middle of the night was rather awkward, after all.

After a few minutes, something caught Max's eye, and she tugged on Sherlock's sleeve. "There," she said, pointing at a strange glinting object laying next to the tracks. Sherlock knelt down next to it and picked it up.

"A spray paint can," he told her. He held it up to her, and she took it. "Is it the same paint that Raz identified? Zinc?"

Max was surprised that he remembered that- she certainly hadn't- but she examined the can. "I'd say so," she answered. "I'm no spray paint expert, though."

Sherlock nodded. "I trust you," he replied. Max blinked, surprised at how easily he said it. He took the can back from her and passed her his flashlight. With both of his hands free, he ran a thumb over the yellow paint on the nozzle. Then, without warning, he sniffed the nozzle.

"Hey!" Max exclaimed, startled.

But Sherlock just ignored her protests. "You're right," he said. "It's zinc." He put the paint can back on the ground and started walking again.

Max hurried after him, her gaze going from him to the paint can and back again. "Smelling spray paint is bad for you, you know that, right?" she asked.

Sherlock scoffed. "I've done worse," he answered.

She blinked, not sure how to reply to that. "...Drugs?" she finally guessed. "Are you an addict?"

He shot her a look. "User," he corrected. He pulled up his sleeve and showed her a nicotine patch on his arm. "It helps me focus."

Max nodded, not really sure what to make of that information. "I suppose you've never tried coffee?" she said, because she didn't know what else to say.

Sherlock scoffed. "Dull," he replied.

They fell silent again as they continued to walk alongside the train tracks. At one point they reached a wall covered with posters, and Sherlock slowed down to look at it. He reached out and tore the corner off of a poster, and then they continued on their way.

Neither of them spoke as they continued walking down the tracks, but then Max sighed. "Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked.

For once, Sherlock seemed startled. "What?" he replied.

Max shrugged. "Just wondering," she said.

"No," Sherlock answered shortly. "No girlfriend."

She raised an eyebrow. "Boyfriend?" she guessed.

"No, no boyfriend either," Sherlock answered. He seemed slightly uncomfortable with her line of questioning. "You're not...?"

Max raised an eyebrow. "Asking you out?" she finished. She grinned at him. "No, I'm not. I was just curious, y'know, after how you reacted at the Lucky Cat."

Sherlock seemed flustered as they both remembered the shopkeeper's words: _Your girlfriend there, she likes!_ "I don't date," he said simply. "That's all."

She nodded. "Oh, I get it," she realized. "You're one of those unattached types, aren't you? John's the same. He doesn't act like one, but there's a reason why none of his relationships last very long. He's not ready to... well, settle down isn't the right word. It's more like he's afraid of commitment." She gave him a look. "You're the first person that he's actually been serious about."

Sherlock's phone suddenly went off, but instead of answering the call he silenced it and turned back to Max. "We're not dating," he reminded her.

She rolled her eyes. "I know," she said. "I meant it in a platonic way. You're good for him, Sherlock. I've never seen him this happy before."

He scoffed. "Most people don't quite have that reaction to me," he commented.

Sebastian's words from a few days ago came back to her: _Put the wind up everybody. We hated him._ Maybe Sherlock was remembering it too, because Max saw a hint of pain in his eyes again. "Well, maybe he's good for you too," she replied. "He might not have many friends, but John Watson is the most loyal person I've ever known. He won't let you down." She laughed, shaking her head with amusement. "He's been there for me ever since we were kids. I probably owe him my life." She looked up at Sherlock, who seemed startled with the direction that this conversation had gone in. "Do me a favor when you're out there solving crimes, will you? Watch his back for me."

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds, but then Sherlock sighed. "Heroin," he stated.

"What?" Max asked.

Sherlock grimaced. "We were talking about drugs earlier," he said. "I used to take heroin." He held himself stiffly, like every word he said pained him. "It was an experiment that got out of control. _I_ got out of control." He hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Getting off of it was hard. It was probably the hardest thing I've ever done, and sometimes I'm still tempted."

Neither of them spoke for a second, but then Sherlock cleared his throat. "My point is, John stops me from losing control," he admitted. "You don't need to be concerned about me keeping an eye on him, because he keeps an eye on me too."

Max blinked. "Oh," she stated.

He suddenly stopped walking and turned to face her. "Not many people know about this, only John and my brother... and a few others," he told her. "I would prefer that you keep this between us."

She nodded quickly, not even hesitating. "Of course," she reassured him.

Honestly, she wasn't sure what else to say. Sherlock's words still echoed through her mind: _You don't need to be concerned about me keeping an eye on him, because he keeps an eye on me too._ In the few days that she had worked with them, she had failed to grasp exactly how deep Sherlock and John's friendship was, and now that she did she couldn't help but marvel at how much they had changed each other's lives in the short time that they had been flatmates.

And really, at the root of it all, Sherlock was human. Despite how smart he was, he had flaws and shortcomings just like everybody else, and the fact that he was willing to tell her about it made her value the faith that he had in her. Neither did she think less of him for using drugs; rather, the fact that he was clean just made her respect him even more for what he had been through. In that moment, she knew that she could trust him.

"Oh, if he kidnaps you, just go along with it and pretend you're scared," Sherlock said. He turned and casually started walking again.

There was a second of silence, and then...

" _What?!_ " Max exclaimed, all of her warm-and-fuzzies gone. She hurried to catch up with him. "If _who_ kidnaps me?!"

Sherlock shrugged. "My brother," he answered, as if that were the obvious answer. "Mycroft. He likes to kidnap people I spend time with."

Max stared at him in disbelief. "Wait, wait, hold up," she said. "Did you just say that your brother likes to _kidnap people?!_ "

Suddenly, before Sherlock could reply, John came running up to them, looking annoyed. "Answer your phone!" he exclaimed, glaring at Sherlock. Max frowned guiltily, remembering how Sherlock had turned off his phone to talk to her undisturbed. "I've been calling you- I've found it!" Then he blinked in surprise when he saw Max standing there. "Max? Didn't you go that way?" He gestured off in the opposite direction.

Max hesitated. "Uh..." she trailed off.

"We ran into each other," Sherlock explained for her. If there had been any vulnerability in his tone earlier, it was gone now, replaced by the thrill of the hunt. "Show me what you found." The three of them headed off with John in the lead. Neither Max nor Sherlock acknowledged what had just happened between them.

000

It turned out that what John wanted to show them was a black wall.

Max blinked. "Err... John?" she asked. "Is this it?"

John seemed just as startled as Max and Sherlock were. "It's been painted over!" he exclaimed. They were currently standing in front of another maintenance shed by the tracks, looking up at the wall that had been completely painted over in black paint. Sherlock shone his flashlight around the area suspiciously as John continued staring at the wall in shock. "I don't understand. It- it was here ten minutes ago! I saw it. A whole load of graffiti!"

Sherlock frowned. "Somebody doesn't want me to see it," he muttered.

Without any warning, he whirled around and grabbed the sides of John's head with both hands. "Hey, Sherlock, what are you doing-" John started.

"Shh, John, concentrate," Sherlock interrupted. "I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

John looked at him wildly. "No, what?" he demanded. "Why? Why? What are you doing?"

Max blinked. "Sherlock, what-" she started.

Sherlock grasped John's upper arms roughly. "Max, quiet; this is important," Sherlock snapped. "John, I need you to maximize your visual memory." He started spinning him and John around in circles, maintaining eye contact with John. "Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?!"

"Yeah," John answered.

"Can you remember it?" Sherlock insisted.

"Yes, definitely."

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

"How _much_ can you remember it?"

"Well, don't worry-" John started.

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate," Sherlock told him.

"Yeah, well, don't worry," John replied. "I remember all of it."

"Really?" Sherlock asked speculatively.

Rolling his eyes, John pulled himself free from Sherlock's grasp. "Yeah, well, at least I _would_ , if I can get to my pockets!" he exclaimed. He rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. "I took a photograph."

Instantly, Sherlock snatched the phone from him and looked at the picture. Max leaned over his shoulder and saw that John's picture showed all of the Hangzhou characters with perfect clarity.

Sherlock sagged in relief, even though he seemed slightly embarrassed.

John sighed and shook his head in disappointment.

Max burst out laughing.


	6. Night at the Museum

Max was tired.

By the time they had returned from the train tracks it was so late that she had decided to spend the night at Baker St. Of course, that had proven to be a big mistake; Sherlock had them working throughout the night to translate the Hangzhou characters that John found, so none of them had slept at all. They had finally finished right before the sun came up the next morning, and Sherlock had pinned the picture of the characters and their translations to the wall above the fireplace, where they joined the pictures from the bank and the library that Van Coon had been in.

Promptly, Sherlock had shoved large reference books at them.

Now, at least three hours later- Max had long since lost track of time- she was curled up on the couch with one of the books open on her lap, skimming through it to find any clue as to what the numbers might mean. John was doing the same at the dining table.

Neither of them had turned a page in the last half hour.

"Always in pairs," Sherlock declared.

John looked up drowsily from his book. "Hmm?" he asked, clearly two seconds from falling asleep.

Sherlock didn't seem fazed by John's unenthusiastic response. "Numbers come with partners," he stated.

Max held back a yawn. "Sure," she agreed, even though she was too tired to pay attention.

As expected, Sherlock was the only one who had any energy left after staying up all night. He was currently standing in front of the collage of Hangzhou characters, frowning at them as if they had offended him on a personal level. Maybe they had- by this point Max was too tired to tell.

"God, I need to sleep," John declared.

Max sighed. "Me too, Johnny boy," she muttered.

Sherlock scowled at the symbols. "Why did he paint it so near the tracks?" he asked.

John groaned. "No idea," he answered.

Max nodded. "Sure," she said again.

But Sherlock acted like they hadn't even said anything. "Thousands of people pass by there every day," he continued.

"Just twenty minutes," John pleaded to the air.

Max scoffed. "I'd settle for ten," she amended.

"Of course!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly. Max and John turned to see that he was grinning at the pictures on the wall. "Of _course!_ " He turned to look at them, eyes bright. "He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back."

Max shook herself, trying to focus on Sherlock's words. "He kills Lukis and Van Coon for stealing it, then tries to trace down the item itself," she summed up. "Makes sense. But what does Soo Lin have to do with this?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "I don't know," he finally said. Without warning, he pulled some of the pictures off of the wall. "But we can't crack this without her." He turned towards the door.

"Oh, good!" John grumbled sarcastically.

Max plopped her book down and pulled herself off of the couch. "As long we get to _sleep_ afterwards!" she called to Sherlock, walking out after him.

John stayed seated for another moment, then sighed and forced himself out the door.

000

A few minutes later, the three of them had been admitted into the National Antiquities Museum, and it hadn't taken long to track Andy down to the same display room that they had met him in earlier. The fresh air had done Max good, and she barely felt her lack of sleep anymore as they walked towards Andy, who was standing in the middle of the room.

Or maybe she was just too far gone to notice that she was tired. That was a possibility, too.

Andy seemed surprised to see them again so soon. "Did you find anything?" he asked anxiously when they reached him.

Sherlock glanced around the room to make sure that nobody else was in the room. When he was satisfied that they were alone, he turned his attention back to Andy. "Two men who traveled back from China were murdered, and their killer left them messages in the Hangzhou numerals," he answered.

Max grimaced. "That's... that's not what he was asking, Sherlock," she said.

Sherlock gave her a look. "He asked if we found anything," he reminded her.

She sighed. "Yeah, but-" she started, but then she thought better of it. Instead, she turned back to Andy. "No, Andy, we don't know where Soo Lin went. That's why we came to you, actually."

John nodded. "She's in danger," he added. "Now, that cipher- it was just the same pattern as the others. He means to kill her as well."

Andy blinked, suddenly seeming overwhelmed. "Look, I've tried everywhere," he said. Sherlock grimaced and started pacing. "Friends, colleagues... I don't know where she's gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away."

Suddenly Sherlock stopped his pacing, and the other three turned their attention to him. "What are you looking at?" John asked.

Sherlock pointed to a nearby display case. "Tell me more about those teapots," he ordered.

Andy cleared his throat. "Th- the pots were her obsession," he told them. "Um, they need urgent work. If-if they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them."

 _You have to just keep making tea in them..._

"Oh my God," Max muttered.

John looked at her sharply. "What?" he asked.

Max pointed to one of the teapots. "Yesterday..." she trailed off.

Sherlock nodded and bent down to study the teapots more closely. "Yesterday only one of those pots was shining," he finished. "Now there are two."

"Soo Lin's still coming here," Max declared.

000

"We're going to have a long night," Sherlock told Max and John as they walked into the flat at Baker St. "Get some rest while you can."

Max looked at him as she took her jacket off. "Why?" she asked. "What are we doing?"

Sherlock sat down in his armchair and rested his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. "Soo Lin ran when she saw the cipher, and she hasn't been back to her flat, meaning that she's hiding from our killer," he said. "If she's hiding, but she still returns to the museum to care for the teapots, she would come at night. So, if we mean to find her-"

"-we'll have to be at the museum at night," John finished.

Sherlock nodded. "Right," he agreed. "Possibly all night."

Max groaned at the thought of another all-nighter, but she wasn't going to back out now, not that they were this close to solving the case. "Can I stay here?" she asked. "I don't really feel like going back to my flat and then coming back later."

John blinked. "Oh, right," he said, obviously started at the question. But then he shook himself. "Yeah, of course! Uh... you can take my bed and I'll sleep on the couch-"

"She can have my bed," Sherlock interrupted.

Both Max and John stared at him in disbelief, not sure if their sleep-deprived minds had heard him right. "... Come again?" Max asked.

Sherlock's expression made it clear that he didn't understand why they were so shocked. "I'm staying up," he said, as if that were obvious. "It makes the most sense for Max to sleep in my bed, since I won't be using it."

Max and John shared a look. "... Alright," Max agreed. "Thanks."

Sherlock nodded.

000

Max and John slept through the day, and eventually it was nighttime, far past the closing hours for most businesses. At first glance, the National Antiquities Museum seemed to be completely deserted; the lights were off, and if one were to glance into the window there would be no sign of people inside the building. But the truth was, even though the museum was closed for the night, it was far from empty.

"You'd think that being in a museum at night would be a bit more interesting," Max grumbled.

Sherlock had instructed Max and John to wait for him while he investigated, so they were currently sitting on one of the benches in the middle of a display room. Only a few lights were on, just enough for them to see by. At first they had amused themselves by looking through the displays, but it didn't take long for that to lose its novelty.

John glanced at the time on Max's phone. "We've been here for two hours," he said. "Still nothing from Sherlock?"

Max checked her phone, then shook her head. "No," she answered.

Neither of them spoke for a second, but then Max sighed. "How've you been, John?" she wanted to know.

John blinked. "Sorry?" he asked.

She shrugged. "It's been a while since we just sat and talked," she said. "So how've you been?"

He was silent for a few seconds as he considered the question. "Err... good," he finally answered. "Very good. I'm starting a new job tomorrow, actually."

Max grinned. "Good for you!" she exclaimed. "What is it?"

John shrugged. "Doctor," he told her. "Locum work for now." He paused. "There's... err... there's a girl there. Her name's Sarah. She... she's nice."

Max rolled her eyes. "You fancy her," she stated.

Instantly, John started coughing, and Max had to pat him on the back a few times to clear it up. "No, no, I don't- I don't fancy her," John said quickly. Max raised an eyebrow. "Alright... possibly."

"You're not fooling me," Max told him.

John sighed. "Yes, fine, I fancy her," he admitted. He gave her a look. "But don't tell Sherlock."

She grinned. "Got it," she agreed. "Not a word to Sherlock."

A short silence fell over the room, and then John cleared his throat awkwardly. "So... Sherlock gave you his bed," he said.

Max shot him a look. "If you're about to say what I think you're going to-" she started.

"He respects you," John told her.

She blinked. "What?" she asked.

John glanced at her. "He respects you," he repeated, as if that were obvious.

Max was silent as she digested that. "I... I suppose I respect him, too," she finally said. She glanced at him. "What are you trying to say?"

He shrugged. "Nothing," he answered. "But... just remember that coming from Sherlock, it means a lot."

Suddenly, before they could continue the conversation, Max's phone beeped, and she glanced at it to see that she had gotten a text from Sherlock.

 _I found Soo Lin. Meet me in the restoration room._

 _SH_

"What is it?" John asked.

Max sighed and stood up. "C'mon, Johnny boy," she said. "Sherlock's waiting."

000

A few minutes later, Max and John were sitting at one of the many desks in the restoration room. Sherlock was standing next to them, and Soo Lin sat across the table. A small lamp on the desk illuminated Soo Lin's elegantly-shaped face, and her black hair seemed to shine in the light. After spending the last two days searching for her, it was strange to see Soo Lin like this, sitting at her desk like everything was normal.

 _I suppose we shouldn't tell her that we broke into her flat,_ Max thought to herself.

"You saw the cipher," Soo Lin told them shakily. "Then you know he is coming for me."

Sherlock nodded. "You've been clever to avoid him so far," he said.

Soo Lin glanced down at the table, where an old Chinese teapot was resting. Max recognized it as one of the teapots on display in the museum- one of the teapots that Soo Lin had been working on. "I had to finish... to finish this work," she explained. "It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

That caused Sherlock to look at her sharply. "Who is he?" he asked. "Have you met him before?"

A hesitant expression flickered over Soo Lin's face, and Max shot Sherlock an irritated look before reaching out and putting a hand on Soo Lin's arm. "Take your time," she said.

Soo Lin nodded gratefully, but she glanced up at Sherlock all the same. "When I was a girl, living back in China," she answered. "I recognize his signature."

"The cipher," Sherlock stated.

Soo Lin grimaced and shook her head. "Only he would do this," she said, even though it sounded more like she was talking to herself now. "Zhi Zhu."

John blinked. "Zhi Zhu?" he repeated.

"The spider," Sherlock translated.

Soo Lin put her right foot up on her opposite knee and slipped off her shoe. In the dim light from the lamp, Max could see a small tattoo: a lotus flower inside a circle. "You know this mark?" Soo Lin asked them.

Sherlock nodded. "It's the mark of a Tong," he answered.

Max frowned. "What's the Tong?" she asked.

He sighed. "Ancient crime syndicate based in China," he explained.

Soo Lin grimaced. "Every foot soldier bears the mark," she added. "Everyone who hauls for them."

John blinked. "Hauls?" he repeated. But then his eyes widened when he realized what she meant. "Y- you mean you were a smuggler?"

Soo Lin looked away and put her shoe back on. "I was fifteen," she told them. "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood, no way of surviving day to day except to work for the bosses."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Who are they?" he asked.

Soo Lin turned her gaze to Sherlock, meeting his eyes. "They are called the Black Lotus," she answered. "By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong." She shook her head. "But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England. They gave me a job here. Everything was good, a new life."

"Then he came looking for you," Sherlock finished.

She hesitated, and Max saw her eyes start to water. Wordlessly, Max passed her a tissue, and Soo Lin took it gratefully. "Yes," she told Sherlock. She wiped her eyes and continued on. "I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave. A small community like ours... they are never very far away." She grimaced. "He came to my flat. He asked me to help him track down something that was stolen."

Max gave her a look. "This is Zhi Zhu we're talking about, right?" she asked. Soo Lin nodded.

John frowned. "And you've no idea what it was?" he added.

Soo Lin shook her head. "I refused to help," she told them.

John nodded. "So you knew him well when you were living back in China?" he inquired.

Despite the sadness in her eyes, Soo Lin managed a ghost of a smile. "Oh, yes," she answered. "He's my brother."

There was a moment of silence, and then...

"Oh, God," Max muttered.

Soo Lin nodded. "Two orphans," she told them. "We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or stave on the streets like beggars." She shook her head. "My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan- the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. The next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting."

Sherlock put a few pieces of paper on the table; Max leaned forward and saw that they were the pictures that he had taken from the wall in Baker St. "Can you decipher these?" he asked.

Soo Lin pulled a picture from the bank closer to her. "These are numbers," she answered. She pointed to the line across the painting. "Here, the line across the man's eyes- it's the Chinese number one."

Impatiently, Sherlock pointed to the character next to the painting. "Yes, and this one is fifteen," he finished. "But what's the code?"

Soo Lin grimaced. "All the smugglers know it," she told them. "It's based upon a book-"

Without warning, the lamp next to them went out, as well as the other lights; there was only a dim glow coming from the emergency lights, just bright enough for Max to make out the dim figures of her friends. There was an ominous thud that echoed throughout the museum.

Max froze. "What was that?" she asked.

"He's here," Soo Lin said softly. "Zhi Zhu. He found me."

That was all that it took to send Sherlock running across the room, towards the doors without any warning. "Sh- Sherlock!" John hissed. "Sherlock, wait!"

"I'll go after him, I'm faster than you," Max told John. With that, she hurried off after Sherlock.

John groaned. "Max!" he started, but she was already gone. Quickly, he turned to Soo Lin and grabbed her hand. "Come here." The two of them hurried off to find a hiding place.

000

Meanwhile, Max caught up to Sherlock in the large foyer in the entrance of the museum; there two staircases, one on each end of the foyer, and a large balcony surrounding the floor above. A statue resting on a low plinth was in the middle of the room. The detective was standing in the entranceway of the foyer, looking around wildly. "Sherlock, don't just run off-" Max started.

Suddenly, there was movement from up on the balcony, and Max barely had time to glance up before there was a loud gunshot. Instantly, Sherlock grabbed Max's wrist and pulled her with him as he ran towards the statue in the middle of the room. A figure on the balcony- it had to be Zhi Zhu- fired a few more shots, but none of them hit its mark. Sherlock and Max were able to reach the statue, where they ducked down for cover.

"He has a gun!" Max exclaimed in a panic.

"I know!" Sherlock snapped.

Without warning, Zhi Zhu ran across the balcony and disappeared from view. Sherlock took off towards one of the staircases to follow the figure, and Max hurried to keep up. "I take back everything I said about being bored!" Max shouted to nothing in particular. "I'd rather be bored than shot at!"

They reached the top of the stairs, and Sherlock tore around the corner. Max followed him and saw that they were in another display room, this one filled with human skulls that seemed to be mocking them. There was no sign of their attacker.

Something out of the corner of her eye caught Max's attention, and even though she didn't know what it was, she yelled, "Get down!" Sherlock whirled around in confusion, but Max tackled him to the ground, behind a solid display case. A bullet flew past them, right through the space that they had just been in.

Max's stomach churned when she realized what had happened; Zhi Zhu had hidden by the doorway of the exhibit, and when they had ran past him he had been going to shoot them. The strange glint that she had seen was a reflection of him raising his gun to fire at them. If she hadn't reacted, both she and Sherlock would most likely be dead right now.

Zhi Zhu fired a few more shots, each one causing Max to flinch. "Careful!" Sherlock called out. Max stared at him in horror. "Some of those skulls are over two hundred thousand years old- have a bit of respect!"

" _Sherlock!"_ Max hissed in disbelief.

But strangely they were met with silence. Neither Max nor Sherlock dared to breathe for a few seconds, but still there was no response from Zhi Zhu.

"... Thank you!" Sherlock said.

They waited for a few more seconds for a reply- Max half expected another round of shots fired in their direction. But there was no sound in the room other than her and Sherlock's panting, both of them out of breath from running.

"Get off," Sherlock ordered.

It took a second for Max to remember that she was still on top of him from when she had tackled him to the ground. "Right," she agreed. She rolled over as quickly as she could.

Sherlock sat up and glanced suspiciously around the display case. "He's gone," he reported. He got to his feet and brushed himself off.

Max frowned as she stood up. "He just left?" she asked. "Why?"

Sherlock didn't reply, but then his eyes widened. "He's gone back for Soo Lin," he realized.

Instantly, the two of them were running out of the display room, leaving the skulls behind him. They shot down the stairs that they had just hurried up a few minutes ago and tore across the foyer.

They had just passed the statue when they heard the gunshot.

Max stumbled to a stop, filled with cold dread. "Oh no," she said.

"Come on, Max!" Sherlock shouted.

The two of them reached the restoration room just as John did. His face was pale and his eyes were wide with horror; Max had a feeling that she looked the same. Wordlessly, John ran towards a door that led to an adjoining room. "I hid her here, I told her to lock the door-" he started.

But the door was wide open.

Sherlock went in first, followed by John and then Max. Even though they were all expecting it, they were still shocked by the sight that greeted them.

Soo Lin was dead, and in her palm was a black origami lotus flower.

000

A few minutes later, Sherlock, Max, and John were walking away from the museum. It was late at night by this point, but cars were still on the streets, and people walked happily down the sidewalks, none of them aware of what had just happened.

"We need to go to Dimmock," Sherlock said. "I need books."

John blinked. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock glanced at him. "You heard me," he answered. "Books. Soo Lin said that the code was based off a book- she died before she told us which book, and we need to figure it out."

John looked at him in disbelief. "Sherlock, a girl just _died!"_ he exclaimed. "Will you take a minute to-"

Suddenly, Max let out a moan, and Sherlock and John turned around to look at her. "Max?" John asked. "Are you alright?"

Without warning, she ran towards the nearest garbage can and threw up.

Sherlock and John hurried after her. "What's wrong?" John demanded, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Max shook her head, still shaken. "It's just... her eyes... they were just staring out at nothing, and-" she stuttered. "She was nice. Soo Lin, I mean. She- she didn't deserve this." She shuddered.

John instantly pulled her into a hug, and she leaned against him, trying to control herself. "I know, Max, I know," he said. "But we have to keep moving. If we want to catch her murderer-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted.

The two of them turned to Sherlock, who was looking at Max with a concerned expression. He put a hand on her shoulder. "You need to rest," he told her. "I'll call a cab for you. Go back to your flat and sleep. Call if you need us."

Max shook her head quickly. "No, I'm fine-" she started.

" _Max_ ," Sherlock stated.

They looked at each other, blue eyes against grey, but then Max sighed. "Alright," she agreed.

Within a few minutes, Max was in a cab, heading back to her flat. Sherlock and John remained standing by the curb, watching the car drive away. "That was nice of you," John commented.

Sherlock didn't tear his gaze from the cab. "She was sick," he stated. "It wouldn't be productive for her to come with us."

With that, he turned and continued on his way to Scotland Yard.


	7. Brotherly Concern

"Maxine Arthur, twenty-five years old, graduated from Rhode Island School of Design..." Without warning, the lady sitting in front of Max leaned forward. "Tell me, why did you want to go to America?"

Ms. Carol Simmons was the boss of the London Bibliotheque offices, and Max got the impression that she was the type of woman who wouldn't take no for an answer. She had greying-brown hair that was pulled back into a tight bun, and her stormy grey eyes seemed to see right into Max's soul. Her suit fitted her neatly, and she didn't even have a hair out of place.

On the other hand, Max was sure that she herself looked like she had been dragged through hell and back, even though she had tried her hardest to appear presentable. She hadn't been able to sleep at all last night, and if it had been up to her, she would have stayed home all day and eaten through one- or ten- tubs of vanilla ice cream. But when she had been called in for a follow-up interview at Bibliotheque, she had been forced to admit that she couldn't just sulk around in her flat.

Max was sitting in Simmons's office at the moment. Everything about it seemed _normal_ : a neat desk, organized bookshelves, filing cabinets, an entire wall made of glass in which Max could see out onto the very normal London streets from ten floors up... The day was unremarkable, and it seemed _wrong_ ; Max knew that she was being stupid, but she had halfway-expected that the world would somehow be changed after the events of the museum, that everyone would be in shock just as she was. But London was no different today than it had been yesterday or any of the days before, and it was a scary thought.

"I..." Max trailed off.

She had answered this same question in her previous interview, she knew that. But right now, for the life of her, she couldn't remember what she had said. Every time she tried to think, she saw Soo Lin laying limply on the ground, gazing out at nothing with the black origami flower laying on her palm.

 _Get a grip,_ she told herself sternly. _Sherlock's on it. Focus on your interview, not the case!_

The thought cleared Max's mind a bit, and she turned her attention to Simmons, who was waiting with an impatient expression. "I went to America for college," she finally answered. "Rhode Island School of Design is the best graphic design school out there. I wanted to see if I could do it."

Simmons raised an eyebrow. "And could you?" she asked.

"Yes," Max stated.

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds as Simmons stared at Max, silently analyzing her. Max refused to look away. "You're confident," Simmons stated. "I like that."

Suddenly, Simmons's phone rang, and she turned away from Max to pick it up. "I thought I told you I don't want to be interrupted-" she started, but then the person on the other side of the line cut her off. Simmons's gaze flickered to Max. "... Yes, Ms. Arthur is here with me... Alright." She put the phone down. "Someone from the government is here to see you."

Max blinked. "Come again?" she asked. _The government?_ She felt her stomach suddenly drop out from under her when she realized something. _Does this have to do with Soo Lin?_ She grimaced and tried to push back her growing panic.

"Ah, Maxine Arthur?"

Both of them turned to see a man standing in the doorway. He was slightly taller than Max, with thinning brown hair and cold blue eyes. He was dressed in an immaculate suit and was leaning on a black classic umbrella- even though the sun was shining brightly outside and rain wasn't on the forecast for the entire week.

"... Here?" Max replied.

The man turned to Simmons. "Kindly leave us," he instructed. "I wish to have a word with Ms. Arthur."

Simmons crossed her arms. "Sir, this is my office and my building-" she started.

Instead of letting her finish, the man held up a badge. Simmons eyed it, then turned to Max. "My secretary will call you," she told her. "Show yourself out." With that, she walked out of the office, ignoring the man as she passed him.

As soon as she left, the man closed the door to the office and took a seat behind Simmons's desk as if he owned it. Max eyed him cautiously, trying to figure out what he wanted. For a few seconds, Max tried to be like Sherlock and see the story hidden in the man's appearance, but it didn't take long for her to admit that she had no clue what she was doing. The man just watched her with amusement, as if he knew what she was doing.

"Who are you?" Max finally asked.

The man waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, just a minor government official," he answered. "But I didn't come here to talk about me; I have a few questions, Ms. Arthur."

Max crossed her arms, but even though she appeared calm on the outside, her heart was beating rapidly and it was all she could do to avoid shaking. "Questions about what?" she replied. She had a feeling that even though she had come here for a job interview she was now in a different type of interview, one that was far more sinister.

"About Sherlock Holmes," the man told her. Max tensed, and he leaned forward, as if could sense her unease. "I have reason to be... concerned... about his wellbeing."

She raised an eyebrow. "And why can't you just ask him?" she challenged.

The man grimaced. "I would prefer that my concern goes unnoticed," he told her. "We have a... _difficult_ relationship."

Max was silent for a few seconds as she digested that...

... and then she burst out laughing.

For the first time since he had stepped into the room, the man seemed startled- but only slightly. "What?" he demanded.

She grinned, not scared of him anymore. "You're him, aren't you?" she asked. "Sherlock's brother. Mycroft, is it? Mycroft Holmes?"

Mycroft looked at her curiously. "I see my brother told you about me," he commented. "I suppose that's an improvement."

Max shrugged. "All he told me was your name and that you like to kidnap people," she told him. "I figured the rest out myself- that creepy dramatic vibe that you have is the kidnapping part, and besides, anyone can see that you look similar to him, if they look closely enough. I guess I should thank you for visiting me here instead of kidnapping me or something, but did you really have to do this during my job interview?"

That just caused Mycroft to scoff. "You already have the job," he said. "Ms. Simmons made up her mind as soon as you started talking- you can tell by looking at her left sleeve."

And it was in that moment that Max realized something; Mycroft was smart. Sherlock-type smart.

"Tell me, what is it like there at Baker St?" Mycroft asked. "Will Sherlock start taking in stray dogs now?"

Max blinked. "... Excuse me?" she replied.

He grimaced. "First John Watson, then you," he said. "Why is my brother suddenly making _friends?"_

She eyed him curiously for a moment, trying to figure out whether or not he was being serious. When it was clear that he was, she shrugged. "I don't know," she answered truthfully. "We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"

Mycroft looked at her sharply, and now that Max knew what she was looking for she could see it: that weight in his gaze that said that he was deducing her. Sherlock had the same look. "You'll do," Mycroft declared.

"Sorry, what?" Max asked.

But Mycroft continued on as if she hadn't spoken. "I suppose it would be pointless to bribe you for information on Sherlock," he said. "So I'll just ask you to keep an eye on him."

Max nodded. "I will," she promised. "I would have anyway. But..." She frowned at him. "Did this really have to be during my _job interview?_ "

If it wasn't her imagination, Mycroft seemed to smirk slightly. "My brother and I can never resist a flare for the dramatic," he told her.

"But my _job interview!"_ Max protested.

Mycroft just stood and started walking towards the door. "Farewell, Ms. Arthur," he said.

She remained where she was as he walked away, but then she turned around in her chair to face him. "You're just like Sherlock, aren't you?" she asked.

He paused by the door, his hand already on the doorknob. "In what way?" he asked.

His eyes were intense as he looked at her, but Max didn't look away. "You're alone," she answered.

Mycroft was silent for a second, but then he nodded to her. "You're quite perceptive, Ms. Arthur," he said. And he walked out of the office.

The door closed gently behind him.

000

Max had just stepped out of the Bibliotheque offices when her phone rang.

Grumbling under her breath, she reached into her bag and, after a small struggle, pulled out her phone. "Yeah?" she asked as she answered the phone.

" _Hi_ ," John said over the phone. " _Are you feeling better?_ "

It took a second for Max to remember her breakdown last night, after everything at the museum- her conversation with Mycroft had completely driven it from her mind. "Yeah, I'm fine," she answered.

" _Good!_ " John exclaimed. " _Hey, listen, can you do me a favor? Remember Sarah?_ "

Max blinked. "The girl at work that you fancy?" she replied. "Yeah. Why?"

He cleared his throat awkwardly. " _Well, I- I have a date with her tonight-_ " he started.

"Congratulations!" Max said.

" _Thanks_ ," John replied. " _So... err... I'm going to be out tonight. Sherlock's gonna be at the flat by himself and I'm worried about him so... will you come over to the flat and watch him while I'm gone?_ "

Max was silent for a few seconds, but then she burst out into laughter. "You want me to babysit Sherlock?" she asked. "Are you serious? Oh my God, that's priceless!"

" _Thanks_ ," John said dryly. " _So will you do it?_ "

"Yeah, of course," Max replied, still laughing. "I was going to come over later anyway."

" _Really?"_ he asked, sounding surprised. " _Why?"_

The smile slid from Max's face, and she grimaced, thinking once again of Mycroft. "I have a few questions for Sherlock," she answered.

000

"... What happened here?"

Max had stopped off at her flat to change into casual clothes, and now she stood in the doorway of Sherlock and John's flat, but it looked nothing like it had yesterday. It seemed like all the books from the bookshelves had multiplied overnight and decided to take over the entire room; there were crates stacked in piles that were taller than Max, each of them containing books stacked in a sloppy mess, and even more books were sprawled on every imaginable surface in the room. In fact, the only clear spots seemed to be a path from the doorway to the dining table where John was sitting, a circle around where Sherlock was standing next to the bookshelves, and a well-paced track in the middle of the room.

"Books," Sherlock told her, not even turning to look at her. Any concern that he had had for her last night was obviously gone now as he examined the books on the bookshelf, glaring at them as if daring them to say something.

Max nodded. "I see that," she agreed. "Can I come in, or are there land mines under the floor?"

John gestured her in. "It should be safe," he said. "No promises."

She walked cautiously into the room, following the path to the dining table. "So, any leads?" she asked.

John shrugged. "Yes and no," he answered.

"A book everyone would own," Sherlock declared angrily. He turned to look at Max and John. "What's a book that everyone would own?"

Max shrugged as she sat down next to John. "The dictionary?" she suggested.

Sherlock shook his head. "Already tried that," he grumbled.

She frowned at him. "What exactly are you doing?" she asked.

He pointed to a nearby stack of crates. "We tried going through all their books, but we don't have time for that," he said. "So we're looking for books that everyone would have."

Max blinked. "Sorry, but how did we start talking about books?" she demanded.

Sherlock pointed to the pictures of the Hangzhou characters on the wall. "The numbers are in book code," he told her. "The first number- fifteen- is the page, and the second number- one- is the word. Soo Lin told us that all smugglers have the book, but she didn't tell us _which_ book. So-"

"- so you tried going through Lukis and Van Coon's books to try to find the right one, but you're narrowing it down to books everyone would own," she said. "Got it. How long have you been at this, exactly?"

John grimaced. "Since we got back from the museum," he told her. "We stayed up the entire night. I fell asleep at work today."

Sherlock grabbed a book from the bookshelf. "Fifteen, entry one," he muttered to himself. He flipped open to the page, but angrily slammed it closed. " _Nostrils_." He propped his elbows on the crate in front of him and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, ruffling it up. "I need some air. We're going out tonight."

Max raised an eyebrow at John. "You didn't tell him?" she asked.

Sherlock looked up sharply. "Tell me what?" he demanded.

John cleared his throat. "I've... er... got a date," he said.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "What?" he asked.

John sighed. "It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun," he explained.

But Sherlock still seemed shocked. "That's what _I_ was suggesting," he said.

John blinked uncomfortably. "Uh... no, it wasn't," he replied. "At least, I hope not. No, I'm going out, and you're staying here with Max."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine," he said. "Where are you taking her?"

"Cinema," John answered.

Sherlock scoffed. "Dull, boring, predictable," he declared. John blinked, seeming offended, but Sherlock reached into his pants pocket and passed a piece of paper to him. "Why don't you try this? In London for one night only."

Max leaned over John's shoulder to read the piece of paper; it was a strip torn from a poster that advertised the Yellow Dragon Circus. She glanced up at Sherlock questioningly, recognizing the design from one of the posters that they had passed by at the train tracks. Sherlock just shrugged.

John glanced over the paper once more, then held the paper back to Sherlock. "Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice," he said.

000

A few minutes later, John had left the flat to take Sarah to the Yellow Dragon Circus.

Max and Sherlock, meanwhile, were sitting in the two armchairs in Baker St, surrounded on all sides by the mess that was Lukis and Van Coon's books- they had spent a few minutes clearing a space to sit down. "So..." Max trailed off. "We might be here for a while."

Sherlock grunted but didn't reply.

Max sighed and leaned back in John's armchair. "I spoke to your brother today," she said.

That caused Sherlock to look up sharply. "What?" he demanded.

Max glanced over at him. "Mycroft," she said. "He interrupted my job interview."

Sherlock was silent as he considered that, but then he nodded. "He's getting less dramatic in his old age, I see," he commented. "What did he want?"

She shrugged. "He wants me to make sure you're okay," she told him. "To make sure you have ten fingers and ten toes, stuff like that. And he said that you two don't get along."

Sherlock scoffed. "That's an understatement," he grumbled.

Max had a feeling that there was more to the story than that, but based on Sherlock's expression she didn't think that it was a good idea to get into that right now. "So, uh... what exactly does he do?" she asked instead.

He grimaced. "If you ask him he'll say that he occupies a minor position in the British government," he answered bitterly.

She raised an eyebrow. "But that's not true," she stated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not," he said. "He _is_ the British government... or the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis, if he's in the mood."

Max blinked. "Right," she replied.

Neither of them spoke for a while, long enough for Max to assume that Sherlock was in his mind palace again- whatever that was. But then he turned to look at her. "Why are you here?" he asked, breaking the silence.

She gave him a look. "Here in the flat?" she replied. "John asked me here. Unless you're asking about the purpose of life- if you are then I really can't help you."

He shook his head. "I mean, why haven't you decided that you want nothing to do with this?" he said. "Solving crimes, following clues for days and days, seeing people die... John and I do it for the thrill. But what about you? You're not like us." He frowned. "I don't _understand."_

Max shrugged, and she was silent for a few seconds as she thought on his words. "I... I'm not sure, really," she admitted. "All I know is that I keep coming back."

The room fell silent for a few seconds, and Max cleared her throat to break the silence. "So... the circus," she said. "You didn't just send John there because it was interesting, did you?"

Sherlock's lips twitched up in the barest hint of a smile. "I didn't," he agreed. Without warning, he stood up and headed towards the door. "Let's go watch a circus."

Max watched him go, still sitting in John's armchair. She knew that he was expecting her to go with him, but something held her back. Maybe it was the fact that the last time she had followed him out of the flat, Soo Lin had died. But still...

 _Why haven't you decided that you want nothing to do with us?_ Sherlock had asked.

Maybe it had something to do with the uneasy feeling that she had in her stomach when she thought of letting Sherlock- or John- go into a dangerous situation without her.

"I'm a horrible babysitter," she declared.

She stood up and followed him out.


	8. The Yellow Dragon Circus

Across the city from 221B Baker St, John and Sarah were heading towards the address that had been provided for the Yellow Dragon Circus. "It's _years_ since anyone took me to the circus!" Sarah exclaimed happily as they walked.

John cleared his throat awkwardly, trying not to remember who he had gotten this idea from. "Right, yes!" he agreed. "Well it's... err... A friend recommended it to me. He phoned up."

Sarah nodded. "Ah," she said. "What are they, a touring company?"

John shrugged. "I don't know much about it," he admitted.

They turned the corner, and suddenly they were in front of the address from the poster. It was a large white building, and red Chinese lanterns were strung up on the outside. "I think they're probably from China!" Sarah commented, rather unnecessarily.

John looked on at the decorations blankly. "Yes, I think... I think so, yes," he said. He grimaced as his hopes for a normal night began to fade away. "Now _there's_ a coincidence!"

Of course, it was still possible that Sherlock hadn't sent him to a Chinese circus on purpose. Granted, that possibility was rather slim, but there was still a chance, right?

They entered the building and walked into the entryway, with a ticket office off to the side. John led the way to the office just as the customer in front of them finished up his business. "Hi," John said. "I have, er, two tickets reserved for the night."

The manager nodded. "And what's the name?" he asked.

John reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. "Er, Holmes," he answered.

A few seconds passed as the manager looked through the reservations, and then he turned back to them with an envelope in his hand. "Actually, I have four in that name," he told him.

John blinked. "No, I don't think so," he said. "We only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and got one for myself and Max, as well."

Of course, it was obvious whose voice that was. John had been suspecting it for a while now. Still, he was angry as he turned around to see none other than Sherlock Holmes standing there, with Max at his side.

 _Sorry,_ she mouthed.

John just glared at her.

Max held out a hand to Sarah, and she shook it. "Hi, I'm Max," she greeted. "You're Sarah? I've heard a lot about you."

Sarah laughed awkwardly. "You did?" she asked.

Max rolled her eyes. "John was practically talking my ear off about you the other day," she told her.

Sherlock nodded to Sarah. "I'm Sherlock," he said.

Sarah smiled tentatively. "Hi," she greeted.

Sherlock gave her his fake smile. "Hello," he said.

The tension suddenly became so thick that it seemed like one could reach out and physically touch it. Max's eyes went from John- who was glaring at Sherlock- to Sherlock- who was looking back at John innocently. Max cleared her throat awkwardly. "Err, Sarah, would you mind coming with me to the loo?" she asked.

Sarah blinked in surprise, but she nodded. "Sure?" she agreed. Without waiting for more than that, Max grabbed her wrist and dragged her off, leaving Sherlock and John to settle their differences on their own.

000

"You couldn't let me have just one night off?" John demanded.

The two men had moved away from the entryway and were now standing in a dimly-lit stairway as people walked up the stairs past them. They were both speaking quietly so that nobody else overheard, but the annoyance in John's voice was plain to hear.

Sherlock huffed in irritation. "Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day," Sherlock stated. "It _fits._ The Tong sent an assassin to England-"

"- dressed as a tightrope walker," John finished sarcastically. "C'mon, Sherlock, _behave!"_ He groaned."This is exactly why I left Max with you, d'you know that? _Exactly why._ But no, apparently she's just as irresponsible as you!"

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't blame her, this was my idea," he said. " _Listen_. We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else could you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scare in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country."

John just groaned.

000

Meanwhile, Max was washing her hands after using the loo, and Sarah stood next to her. "So how long have you two been dating?" Sarah asked.

Max gave her a look. "Sorry, who?" she replied.

Sarah nodded towards the door. "You and Sherlock," she elaborated.

Max shook her head quickly. "Oh, no, we're not dating," she answered.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Really?" she asked.

Max smiled. "Really," she agreed.

Sarah blinked, seeming surprised. "Oh," she said. "Sorry. It seemed like you were."

Max shook her head as she reached for the soap. "No, he doesn't date," she explained. "And I'm not really looking for a relationship right now, either." She rolled her eyes. "There's too much going on in my life right now."

Sarah nodded wisely. "I hear you," she agreed. "Life's busy." She grinned at Max. "That doesn't mean you can't date someone, though! Why don't you try asking him out?"

The thought almost made Max choke on air. "No, not happening," she said flatly. "Sherlock's... err... He's a character. It's a bit more complicated than just asking him out." She paused when she realized what she was saying. "Not that I fancy him. I don't."

But Sarah just smiled. "Sure you don't," she agreed sarcastically. She turned and headed towards the door. "C'mon, let's go meet up with the boys."

"Seriously!" Max exclaimed as she hurried out after her. "I don't fancy him!"

Something told her that Sarah wasn't going to listen.

000

Sherlock frowned as he looked around the stairwell. "Now, all I need to do is have a quick look around the place," he said.

John nodded. "Fine," he agreed. "You do that; I'm gonna take Sarah for a pint."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "I need your help," he told him.

But John just scoffed. "You have Max," he pointed out.

Sherlock scowled. "I need _both_ of you," he clarified.

John groaned. "I have a couple of other things to do this evening!" he protested.

Even though it should have been fairly obvious, Sherlock just looked at him blankly. "Like what?" he asked. His tone made it clear that he wasn't joking.

John stared at him in disbelief. "You _are_ kidding," he stated.

Sherlock gave him a look. "What's so important?" he demanded.

"... Sherlock, I'm right in the middle of a date," John reminded him. "D'you want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to..." He trailed off, hoping that would be enough for Sherlock to get the point.

But Sherlock just continued staring at him. "What?" he asked again.

John groaned. " _While I'm trying to get off with Sarah!"_ he exclaimed loudly.

Of course, Max and Sarah chose that moment to join them in the stairs. "Heyyy!" John greeted, over- enthusiastically. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and started walking up the stairs towards the circus.

Max hurried after him, not wanting to be left alone with John and Sarah. "What was that about?" she asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't even look at her. "John is being like the grand majority of males," he answered shortly.

"... Ah. I see."

000

A few minutes later, the four of them were standing in the large performance hall with a high ceiling. There was a stage on one side of the hall, but the curtains were closed and it seemed like it wasn't going to be used; rather, there was a large circle of candles laid out in the middle of the otherwise bare room. The hall was dimly lit, only slightly brighter than the stairway, creating a mysterious feeling.

There was a small handful of other people in the room too, gathered around the circle. There weren't any seats in the room, so they were all standing awkwardly as if they weren't sure what to do with themselves.

Wordlessly, the four of them joined the others. John and Sarah grabbed spots right in front of the circle, and Sherlock hovered behind them, casting a suspicious look around the room. Max stood next to Sherlock.

John turned his head to look at the two of them. "You said circus," he accused, speaking quietly so that Sarah didn't hear him. "This is _not_ a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is..." He grimaced. "... _art."_

Sherlock scoffed. "This is _not_ their day job," he reassured him, as if that made it better.

John shot Sherlock a withering glare. "No, sorry, I forgot," he replied sarcastically. "They're not a circus, they're a gang of international smugglers." He jabbed a finger at Max. "You were supposed to _watch him_."

Max shrugged. "I am," she pointed out.

He glared at her. "This isn't what I meant, and you know that," he told her.

She rolled her eyes. "Relax, John," she said.

" _You're interrupting my date!"_ he hissed.

Max held up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, okay," she replied. "We'll keep quiet. You won't even know we're here."

John scoffed. "A bit too late for that," he retorted.

She zipped her lips and tossed aside the imaginary key. "See?" she said. "I'm zipping."

He gave her a look. "It doesn't work like that," he told her.

Max pointedly didn't reply, and John groaned.

Before the argument could continue any further, the sound of a drumbeat filled the room, and they fell silent as the performance began. John shot Sherlock and Max one last glare before he turned around, and Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

As they watched, a Chinese woman walked into the center of the circle, wearing a traditional robe and a heavily painted face. She pointed out at the audience, her face stern and proud, and suddenly she raised her hand into the air. Promptly, the drumbeats stopped, but Max could have sworn she still heard them echoing throughout the hall.

Wordlessly, the woman walked across to the circle to a large object covered with a cloth. She pulled off the cloth, revealing an old, wooden crossbow on a stand. Max watched carefully as the woman picked up a long wooden arrow with white feathers on one end and a sharp metal tip on the other, then placed it onto the crossbow. She then pulled a small white feather from her headdress and held it out, presenting it to the audience. Without warning, she gently dropped the feather onto a small, metal cup on the rear of the crossbow.

Max flinched as the arrow pierced a large board on the far side of the circle.

Chinese instruments suddenly started playing from somewhere in the room as a man entered the circle, clad in chain mail and a threatening face mask. The audience applauded politely as he held his arms out to the sides, and suddenly two other men were there, chaining his hands together.

Max frowned. "What are they doing?" she asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded to the circle, where the masked man was currently being chained to the board. "Classic Chinese escapology act," he answered. "The crossbow's on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

As he spoke, the woman placed another arrow into the crossbow. The warrior let out an involuntary cry as his head was yanked back against the board by a chain. Within a few seconds he was bound tightly to the board with padlocks and chains, and the other two men stepped away.

The music built in intensity, setting everyone's nerves on edge, and suddenly there was a loud crash as two cymbals were banged together. Sarah jumped and grabbed John's arm in fear. "Oh, God!" she exclaimed, laughing in embarrassment. "I'm sorry!" John laughed with her, and Sarah let go of his arm but took his hand in hers. Max resisted the urge to groan.

Meanwhile, the Chinese woman picked up a small knife and held it out so that everyone could see it clearly. Next to Max, Sherlock leaned closer to her so that he could whisper in her ear. "She splits the sandbag," he told her quietly. "The sand pours out. Gradually the weight lowers the bowl."

She glanced up at Sherlock and saw that even though he was talking to her, he was watching the woman with a sharp eye, analyzing her movements. Max turned her attention back to the circus just as the woman sliced open the bag hanging on a long cable. Sand began falling from the slit, and as the bag emptied, the metal ball on the other end of the pulley started sinking towards the bowl behind the crossbow. It didn't take a genius to figure out what would happen; once the weight hit the bowl, the crossbow would fire.

The man struggled with his chains, crying out with effort as he tugged at the restraints. The entire hall was silent, watching with baited breath as he managed to get one hand free of the chains, then another.

A glance at the weight told them that half of his time was up.

Now with both of his hands free, the man tugged at the chains around his neck, but it didn't seem like he was going to get out in time. Max watched with wide eyes, unwilling to blink, and in front of her Sarah grabbed onto John's arm again. The man cried out again as he pulled at his chains, but now the weight was almost at the bowl.

Suddenly, the man was able to get the chains off, and he fell to the ground just as the crossbow fired. The arrow thudded into the board a split second later.

Everyone in the room burst out cheering, and Max grinned. "Thank God," Sarah commented, smiling in relief.

"My God!" John agreed.

Max turned to say something to Sherlock, but suddenly she realized that he was gone. Frowning, she looked around the room, but there was no sign of him. "John, where's Sherlock?" she asked quietly.

John glanced around, then shrugged and turned back to the circus.

"Thanks," Max huffed.

In the circle, the woman raised a hand, and the audience silenced. "Ladies and gentlemen," she announced in heavily-accented English. "From the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure: the deadly Chinese bird-spider." She bowed and walked off to the side.

Max clapped along with the others as a masked acrobat suddenly fell from the ceiling, rolling through the air as the broad red band around his waist unraveled. He suddenly stopped only a couple of feet from the ground, holding his body parallel to the floor.

"Did you see that?!" John exclaimed to Sarah excitedly.

The acrobat dropped to the floor and split the band around his waist in two, revealing that it was actually two strips of cloth. As they watched, he wrapped the ribbons around his arms and ran around the circle before jumping into the air; the ribbons carried his weight as he flew around the circle several feet above the ground. The red ribbons flared out behind him impressively.

Everyone stared on in amazement, including Max, but as she watched, she became more and more troubled. Words from the past few days echoed through her head, and slowly she began to connect the things that Sherlock had predicted hours- no, days- ago.

 _We present for your pleasure, the deadly Chinese bird-spider_ , the Chinese woman had said.

Soo Lin's face flashed before her eyes. _Only he would do this. Zhi Zhu._

 _Zhi Zhu?_ John had asked.

 _The spider,_ Sherlock told them.

And then she remembered walking into the flat at Baker St in response to Sherlock's text, and how he had told her about the deaths of Van Coon and Lukis. _Our killer must have climbed into Lukis's flat through the window,_ he had explained.

Max looked up at the acrobat in horror.

000

Meanwhile, Sherlock was on the stage behind the closed curtains. The space was being used as the dressing room for the performers, and there were various items strewn around the room. The one that he was currently interested in was a bag filled with several spray paint cans.

Sherlock reached into the bag and picked one up. A quick glance at the label told him that it was labeled _Michigan,_ just as Raz had told them it would be, and a yellow band across the bottom of the can said that it was the same color as the spray paint that had been used on the cipher.

"Found you," Sherlock muttered.

He stood up and walked towards the mirrors on the dressing table, shaking the can as he did. He leaned down so that he was level with the mirror and sprayed a single, horizontal line across it. _One._

Sherlock barely had time to admire his handiwork before he saw movement behind him through the mirror. He turned around and saw that a figure was looming over him, dressed in one of the costumes with a gruesome mask. He didn't look pleased.

Uh oh.

000

"John," Max hissed, tugging at John's sleeve.

He just waved his hand dismissively at her, not even tearing his gaze from the acrobat- Zhi Zhu. "It can wait until later, Max," he replied.

She glared at him. "John, _that's Zhi Zhu!"_ she exclaimed.

"That's nice," John commented absentmindedly.

Max groaned, and she was just about to protest more when movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. She glanced in that direction and saw that the curtains on the stage were moving a bit in one place, as if someone on the far side were pushing against it. "John," Max said.

John frowned. "I see it," he agreed. He stared at it for half a second, but then he turned back to watch Zhi Zhu, just as the acrobat landed on the ground dramatically.

"Oh, for goodness's sakes, John, _Sherlock was right!"_ she shouted.

Before anybody could reply, the consulting detective himself came flying through the curtains.

He landed with a thud on the floor a few feet below, crashing onto his back, and he was followed shortly after by a man in a costume similar to the escape artist from before. Sherlock tried to struggle to his feet, but he was too winded to do much but watch as the man raised a knife over his head.

" _Sherlock!"_ Max shouted in a panic.

Suddenly John was there, ramming into the costumed man and knocking him to the ground. Soon the two of them were struggling viciously.

The rest of the crowd burst into screams, and the hall was thrown into panic as everyone started running away- everyone besides Max and Sarah, who hurried to Sherlock and John's aid. Zhi Zhu glanced at the fight, then the fleeing people; he hesitated for half a second, then ran away.

Max still remembered how he had attacked them in the museum last night and killed Soo Lin- his own _sister-_ and for a second she was sorely tempted to run after him. But then John let out a grunt as the other man threw him to the ground. When it was clear that John wasn't getting up, the man stumbled over to Sherlock. Sarah instantly grabbed the arrow from the board and ran towards him.

For a second, Max glanced after Zhi Zhu. But then she turned and followed Sarah.

The man let out a surprised grunt as Sarah hit him over the head with the stick of the arrow, and he stumbled backwards in shock. Max dragged Sherlock to his feet just as Sarah hit their attacker again with the arrow, then a third time. He fell to the ground, unconscious.

"Are you alright?" Max asked Sherlock.

He just waved her off and bent down to the unconscious man, pulling off his shoe and inspecting his ankle. Max leaned over and saw that he had the same tattoo that Soo Lin had- a lotus flower inside of a circle. "He's with the Tong," she stated, rather unnecessarily.

Sherlock stood up and stumbled for a second, still dazed. Max reached out to steady him, but he pushed her off and started hurrying towards the exit. "Let's go," he told them.

John staggered over to Max and Sarah, still trying to catch his breath, and he took Sarah's hand. "Come on," he muttered. The two of them hurried off after Sherlock.

"Come _on!"_ Sherlock exclaimed. "Let's go!"

Max started after them, but she stopped and glanced back at the circle of candles, where the arrow was still laying on the ground. She grimaced, thinking back on the fight.

Suddenly someone put their hand on her shoulder, and Max turned around to see Sherlock standing there. "John and Sarah are waiting," he said. "Are you alright?"

Max nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine," she replied. "Let's go."


	9. London A-Z

After the events at the circus- which Max was sure belonged on the list of top ten circus accidents- Sherlock, John, Max, and a bewildered Sarah had hurried to Scotland Yard, where they were able to catch Dimmock right before he was about to leave for the night.

"I sent a couple of cars," the Detective Inspector announced. "The old hall is totally deserted." He clearly wasn't in a good mood.

Sherlock, John, Max, and Sarah followed Dimmock into the Scotland Yard offices, even though it seemed like Sarah was still trying to figure out exactly how she had ended up here. It was late at night by this point, so most of the desks in the room were empty and the room was eerily quiet. "Look, I saw the mark at the circus," Sherlock told Dimmock. "That tattoo we saw on the two bodies, the mark of the Tong."

Max nodded. "We saw it on one of the bloke's feet," she added.

Dimmock gave her a look. "How did you see his _foot?"_ he demanded.

The four of them glanced at each other hesitantly. "Err... he may or may not have been unconscious," Max finally answered. "Because we may or may not have knocked him out."

By this point they had reached Dimmock's desk, and the detective sat down on it. His expression clearly said that he wasn't completely sold on their theory.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a smuggling operation," John said. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China, something valuable."

Sherlock nodded. "These circus performers were gang members sent to get it back," he added.

Dimmock scowled. "Get _what_ back?" he asked.

But he was met with silence. Sherlock turned away, stubbornly not meeting Dimmock's gaze, and Max grimaced regretfully.

"... We don't know," John finally said.

Dimmock stared at them blankly. "You don't know," he repeated.

Max shrugged. "Well, we know it's from China," she told him, even though that didn't really help at this point.

For a few seconds, Dimmock didn't move, just continued staring at them as he comprehended that. Then he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Holmes," he said, his tone forced. "I've done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something."

That finally caused Sherlock to look up at him, a faint smile on his face.

Dimmock sighed. "I gave the order for a raid," he told them. "Please tell me I'll have _something_ to show for it... other than a massive bill for overtime."

000

A few minutes later, they had caught a cab back to Baker St and were now walking into the flat. Max, who was by now rather familiar with the cluttered living room of 221B, plopped down on the couch in exhaustion, utterly worn out from the events of the night. Sherlock walked up to the pictures above the fireplace, and John followed him.

"They'll be back in China tomorrow," John commented.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, they won't leave without what they came for," he replied. "We need to find their hideout, the rendezvous." He reached out and ran his finger over the picture of the wall by the train tracks, as if that would give him the answer. "Somewhere in this message it _must_ tell us."

Max groaned as she pulled herself off of the couch and joined them by the fireplace. "We've been over this already," she said. "We don't know enough to translate it."

Nobody spoke for a few seconds as they considered their options, and the flat fell silent. But then Sarah cleared her throat, and the other three turned around to see that she was standing hesitantly in the doorway. "Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it," she commented.

Max had honestly forgotten all about her, and from the looks on Sherlock's and John's faces, they had too.

Instantly, John was walking over to Sarah. "No, no, you don't have to go," he told her. He glanced at Sherlock, who was still looking at the Hangzhou characters. "Does she?"

"Yes, it would be better if you left now," Sherlock stated.

"You can stay," John said at the same time.

Max groaned.

The two men shared a look, Sherlock scowling in irritation and John glaring at him. But then John turned back around to Sarah, giving her a small smile. "He's kidding," John reassured her. "Please, stay if you'd like."

Sarah was quiet for a few moments as she glanced nervously at Sherlock, but he had already turned his attention back to the pictures. Then she smiled awkwardly. "Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?"

"Oh God," Sherlock sighed, too quiet for anyone besides Max to hear.

000

John had disappeared into the depths of the kitchen to find something to eat at Sarah's request- Max highly doubted that he would be able to find anything- so Sherlock, Max, and Sarah were the only ones in the living room. Sherlock and Max were sitting at the dining table and going through all their notes again, trying to find if there was something that they had missed the first thousand times they had looked at it, while Sarah stood by the fireplace, looking up at the pictures there.

It was awkward, to say the least.

"So this is what you do, you two and John," Sarah commented. "You solve puzzles for a living."

 _Oh, dear..._

Sherlock paused what he was doing, tensing up in annoyance. Max could practically feel waves of indignation rolling off of him. " _Consulting detective_ ," he corrected venemously.

Sarah blinked. "Oh," she said.

They fell quiet again for a few seconds, but then Max cleared her throat, feeling the need to say something. "Not me," she said.

Sarah smiled at her politely. "Sorry?" she asked.

Max gestured to the papers sprawled out on the table. "I don't do this for a living," she elaborated. "I just help out."

It seemed like Sarah was relieved that she wasn't the only one who wasn't a detective here, because she smiled happily. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "That's nice."

Max turned her attention back to the pictures, but by now the images were so familiar to her that her mind started wandering to the events of the last hour. She frowned as she thought back to the fight at the circus. Sherlock had confronted one of the Tong backstage, John had come to Sherlock's rescue and tackled the man, and even Sarah had been the one who had knocked him out in the end. But Max hadn't done anything; even when the masked man was going to kill Sherlock she had just stood there in shock. None of them seemed to hold it against her; in fact, they were already moving onto the next thing as if they hadn't just been in a fight barely an hour ago. But Max couldn't forget it as easily, and the more she thought about it the more useless she felt.

"What are these squiggles?" Sarah suddenly asked, pointing to the Hangzhou characters that Sherlock was currently looking at.

Sherlock's jaw clenched in annoyance. "They're numbers," he told her. "An ancient Chinese dialect."

Sarah nodded, looking as if she was trying really hard to pretend that made sense. "Oh, right!" she exclaimed. "Yeah, well, of course I should have known that!"

 _When is John going to get back from the kitchen?_ Max thought desperately.

Sarah looked at the picture thoughtfully. "So these numbers," she said. "It's a cipher."

Sherlock's eyes glinted dangerously, and Max was convinced that he was about two seconds from committing murder. " _Exactly_ ," he snapped.

But Sarah just continued on, oblivious to Sherlock's anger. "And each pair of numbers is a word," she stated.

Sherlock and Max looked up at her sharply, all traces of Sherlock's earlier anger gone. "How did you know that?" he demanded, looking at her for the first time.

Sarah seemed bewildered at their surprise, and she pointed at the first few characters. "Well, two words have already been translated," she answered.

Max leaned closer and saw that Sarah was right; two words were scrawled out on the picture in black ink, barely noticeable. "Oh my God," she muttered.

"John," Sherlock called, standing up. "John, look at this."

There was the sound of footsteps from the kitchen, and they turned to see John walking up to them. "Mmm?" he asked.

Sherlock held up the picture. "We left the pictures at the museum that night but Dimmock brought them back," he said. "Soo Lin, she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it!"

Max took the picture from him and glanced at it. "Nine mill," she read.

John squinted at the fine lettering, trying to read it. "Does that mean millions?" he asked.

Sherlock frowned. "Nine million quid," he said thoughtfully. "For what?"

Without warning, he turned to the chair where he had dumped his coat and scarf and started pulling on his coat. "We need to know the end of this sentence," he declared.

John blinked in surprise. "Where are you going?" he asked.

Sherlock threw on his scarf. "To the museum, to the restoration room," he answered. He groaned in exasperation. "Oh, we must have been staring right at it!"

Max and John shared a look, both of them equally confused. "Sorry?" Max asked.

"Staring at what?" John added.

Sherlock turned to them, his eyes bright with the excitement of the chase. " _The book!"_ he exclaimed. "The book, the key to cracking the cipher!" He snatched the picture from Max and waved it in their faces. "Soo Lin used it to do this! While we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code- it must be on her desk!"

With that, he turned around and ran out the door.

For a second, Max, John, and Sarah just stared in bewilderment at the empty space where Sherlock had just been standing.

The way Max saw it, she had two options; she could stay here with John and Sarah and intrude further on their already-intruded-on date, or she could run after Sherlock and probably get into some sort of trouble. She glanced at John, then at the door, considering.

"I'll go after him," Max declared. She grabbed her coat, and before John could protest, she was out the door.

000

Max caught up to Sherlock right before he closed the door to the flat. "Sherlock, wait!" she exclaimed.

He didn't seem surprised to see her there, and he waited until she passed through the doorway to close it. "Let's go," he said.

They hurried out onto the street just as a cab drove by along the street. "Taxi!" Sherlock called. He ran towards the curb, but he was in such a rush that he didn't notice the husband and wife walking by until he rammed into them.

Sherlock went stumbling backwards, and the man dropped his book. "Hey, _du!"_ the man shouted in annoyance. He continued yelling at Sherlock in what sounded like German.

Max hurried up to them just as Sherlock picked up the book. "Sorry, he's just in a rush-" Max started.

" _Entschuldigen Sie, bitte,_ " Sherlock said over her.

Before Max could fully digest the fact that Sherlock knew German- even though she really shouldn't be surprised at this point- the tourist snatched the book from him. " _Ja, danke!_ " he exclaimed, sounding irritated. Without waiting for Sherlock to reply, he turned and walked away with his wife, still complaining in German.

"Well then," Max said.

Sherlock turned back to the curb, but by this point the cab had long since passed. A glance around the street told them that there were no other cabs around, and Sherlock scowled in exasperation.

"So what, do we walk or do we wait?" Max asked.

He was quiet for a few seconds, but then he suddenly stood up straighter. "The A-Z," he realized.

Max blinked. "The what?" she said.

Without warning, Sherlock ran off after the German couple. "Please, wait!" Sherlock shouted after them. " _Bitte!"_

"What is it, Sherlock?!" Max called. When it was clear that he wasn't going to answer, she groaned and ran after him.

Sherlock reached the couple and snatched the book from the man, who started exclaiming in angry German again. Sherlock ignored him and flipped through the pages rapidly, looking for something.

By this point Max had reached them, and she held up her hands in an attempt to placate the man. "Sorry," she said. "Very sorry, we just have to borrow your book-"

The man just waved his hands in exasperation, then turned and walked away.

"Sorry!" Max called again.

She watched the couple walk away, and it was only once they had turned the corner that she turned back to Sherlock. "What was that about?" she demanded.

He just held up the book. "Van Coon, Lukis, Soo Lin, they all had this book," he told her. "The London A-Z." He showed her the page that he was on. "Fifteen, one," he stated. "Page fifteen, word one."

Max's eyes widened when she read the first entry on page fifteen. "Deadmans Lane, NW9," she breathed. "Deadman."

Sherlock nodded. "They were threatening to kill the three of them," he said. "Van Coon, Lukis, Soo Lin... This is the first cipher."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture of the wall at the train tracks. "Tell me the numbers," he ordered.

Max took the paper, and her eyes went to the next set of numbers that they had yet to translate. "Thirty-seven, nine," she answered.

Sherlock thumbed through the book. "Fore St EC2," he read. " _For._ "

She held out her hand, palm up. "Pen," she requested.

He looked up at her in annoyance; from the look on his face, he clearly wasn't used to being told what to do. But Max just raised an eyebrow pointedly, and he sighed and handed her a pen.

"Thank you," Max said. She took the pen and wrote the word _for_ next to the corresponding numbers. Sherlock was still looking at her strangely. "Sixty, thirty-five."

Sherlock blinked, obviously just snapping out of his train of thought. "What?" he asked.

She gestured to the book. "Page sixty, word thirty-five," she told him. "The next word."

He shook his head to clear it. "Right," he agreed. "Sixty, thirty-five..."

000

It took longer than Max had expected to get through the entire message. By the time they finished about fifteen minutes later, Max and Sherlock were sitting on the ground, huddled together to preserve body heat in the cold March weather.

"Tramway," Sherlock declared.

"Tramway," Max echoed as she wrote it down. "We're done."

Without waiting for her to say anything else, Sherlock snatched the paper from her. "Hey-" she started.

"Nine mill for jade pin dragon den black tramway," he read.

Max blinked. "That doesn't even make sense," she said. "Nine mill for... what?"

He held up the paper. "Nine mill for jade pin dragon den black tramway," he repeated. He stood up suddenly, taking Max by surprise, and he started running back towards 221B. "Come on!" Max stumbled to her feet and hurried after him.

000

Sherlock and Max burst into the flat, both of them flushed from running. "John!" Sherlock shouted as he opened the door. "John, we've got it! Max and I- we got it!"

It turned out that nobody was in the living room, and Sherlock ran into the kitchen without hesitation as Max paused in the doorway, catching her breath. "The cipher, the book!" Sherlock declared in the other room. "It's the London A-Z that they're using-"

Suddenly Max saw what Sherlock had been too rushed to see, and her eyes widened in horror. "Sherlock," she interrupted, her tone dead serious. "Come here."

Sherlock walked back into the living room, frowning. "John and Sarah aren't here-" he started, but then he stopped when he saw what Max had seen a few seconds ago.

Two Hangzhou characters were sprayed across the windows in familiar yellow spray paint. The characters were so familiar at this point that neither of them needed to consult the A-Z: fifteen and one.

 _Deadman._

"The Tong were here," Max breathed. "John... They've got John. And Sarah."

Instantly, Sherlock was moving, moving faster than she had ever seen him move before. His usual self-control was gone, replaced by pure, undisguised panic. He ran up to the bookcase, scanning it quickly for what he needed. "Tramway..." he muttered.

He pulled out a folding map. "Clear the table," he ordered. Max quickly pushed all of their now-worthless notes off of the dining table just as Sherlock spread the map out on the table. Max could now see that it was a map of London. Sherlock ran his finger over it, searching for something, and suddenly he stabbed it down. "There," he declared. "That's their hideout."

Without warning, Sherlock turned to her, his grey eyes intense as they looked into her own. "Go to Scotland Yard," he instructed.

Max blinked. "What?!" she protested. "No, I'm coming with-"

"No," Sherlock stated. "I need you to talk to Dimmock, tell him that the item is a jade pin and that I need backup at this location." He pointed to the map again. "Do you understand?"

She crossed her arms. "I'm not letting you take on the entire circus by yourself-" she started.

Without warning, Sherlock put his hands on either side of her face, making sure that she was looking him in the eye. " _Please,_ " he begged.

For a second, Max was silent, but something in his eyes caused her to nod unwillingly. "Alright," she agreed. Some small part of her was relieved that she wouldn't have to deal with another fight, but that part was overshadowed by her concern for John and Sherlock and even Sarah. "I don't like it, but alright." She took a deep breath. "Go to Dimmock, tell him that the Tong stole a jade pin, and get him to send backup to your location. Got it."

Sherlock nodded. "Good," he said. With that, he turned around and walked out of the door, his coat flaring out behind him.

Max grabbed the map off the table and hurried out after him.

000

"Ladies and gentlemen. From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes' pretty companion in a death defying act!"

Tied up to a chair, John could do nothing but watch in horror as men from the circus- or the international smuggling ring, since apparently Sherlock was right and they were the same thing- tied Sarah to a chair directly in the line of fire of the crossbow from the show earlier that night. He and Sarah had been kidnapped from the flat shortly after Sherlock and Max had run out, and now they were currently in some dank underground location that looked like a tramway tunnel.

The Chinese woman who had spoken during the show stood next to the crossbow, without her makeup. John recognized her now as the woman who had been following him and Max for the past few days. She had also revealed to him that she was General Shan, the leader of the Tong... and she believed that John was not only Sherlock Holmes, but that he also had her treasure.

"Please!" John pleaded.

But Shan just ignored him and cut the sandbag, causing the sand to begin to pour out. Sarah wailed in horror, and Shan walked forward to put a black origami lotus flower on her lap. "You've seen the act before," Shan mused. "How dull for you; you know how it ends."

John tried once again to free himself from the ropes that were binding him, but nothing he did seemed to have any effect. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" he exclaimed frantically.

Shan whirled around and glared at him. "I don't believe you," she spat.

"You should, you know."

Everyone turned around at the sudden voice, and they saw a tall silhouette at the far end of the tunnel, with curly hair and a long coat. John knew that silhouette well; after all, it belonged to his flatmate.

"Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him," Sherlock continued.

Shan raised her pistol and aimed it at Sherlock, but he just dodged to the side of the tunnel, disappearing into the shadows. "How would you describe me, John?" Sherlock asked, his voice echoing throughout the tunnel. "Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

John glared into the darkness. " _Late?"_ he retorted.

000

"What do you want this time?" Dimmock demanded.

Max slammed the map down on Dimmock's desk in Scotland Yard, covering the paperwork that he had been working on. It seemed like he was about to protest, but a glare from her silenced him. "A jade pin, worth nine million pounds," she stated.

Dimmock blinked. "... What?" he asked, still sounding a bit bewildered.

She crossed her arms in irritation. "You asked us earlier what was so important that it brought the Tong to London," she said. "That's your answer: a jade pin, worth nine million pounds."

He started at her blankly. "How...?" he trailed off.

Max jabbed the same spot that Sherlock had pointed out. "That doesn't matter," she said. "The Tong kidnapped John and Sarah. Sherlock went after them, but he needs backup."

Dimmock looked at the point on the map, as if not comprehending what she was saying.

"He. Needs. Backup," Max repeated.

000

A few minutes later, Max stood beside Dimmock as Sherlock, John, and Sarah emerged from an underground tramway tunnel. The police force that had just been about to enter the tunnel stood down, and instantly a sobbing Sarah was rushed to the medical team. John hurried after her, and Sherlock headed over to Max and Dimmock.

Sherlock stopped in front of her and looked around at the police cars surrounding them. "You brought the police," he said. He turned back to her, respect clear in his eyes.

Max smirked at him. "It wouldn't kill you to say thank you, y'know," she replied. Sherlock grimaced, and Max nodded towards Sarah. "What happened to her?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, she almost got shot by an arrow," he answered casually.

" _What?!"_ Max exclaimed.

"And the woman from the circus is General Shan," Sherlock added. "There was a fight but she got away."

"... Come again?" Max demanded.

" _And_ the arrow from the crossbow hit Zhi Zhu," he continued. "He's dead."

Before Max could even begin to digest that, Sherlock turned to Dimmock, who had been standing silently beside them. "We'll just slip off," Sherlock told him. "No need to mention us in your report."

Dimmock nodded his agreement, and he looked at Sherlock curiously. "Mr. Holmes..." he trailed off.

Sherlock seemed to actually give him a small smile. "I have high hopes for you, Inspector," he said. "A glittering career."

"I go where you point me," Dimmock declared.

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly," he agreed.

And with that, he walked off.


	10. The Hairpin

Max had decided to stay the night at Baker St, so the next morning she, Sherlock, and John were sitting at the dining table for a quick breakfast. Despite the excitement of last night- after all, they had gotten into a brawl in the middle of a circus and John had been kidnapped- things were rather calm in the flat.

The paper with the decoded Hangzhou characters was laid out on the table in front of them, with Max's handwriting shining clearly over the picture. John frowned at it as he drank his tea. "So, nine mill..." John trailed off.

"Million," Sherlock corrected.

John didn't even glance in his direction. "Million, yes," he agreed. "Nine million for jade pin. Dragon den-

"-black tramway," Max finished. "What exactly does it mean, though?"

Sherlock tapped the paper. "An instruction to all their London operatives," he told them. "A message: what they were trying to reclaim."

It seemed like John was about to reply, but then Sherlock shot Max a look. "What are you _doing?_ " he demanded.

Max had been emptying a packet of sugar into her mug, but now she stopped what she was doing and looked up at him in confusion. "Huh?" she asked.

He frowned at the pile of empty sugar packets next to her mug. "That's your seventh packet of sugar," he said.

She blinked. "So?" she replied.

"It's unhealthy," Sherlock stated.

Max shrugged. "It tastes better," she explained.

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "Max has a sweet tooth," he told Sherlock.

The expression on Sherlock's face clearly said that he wasn't convinced, but John continued on anyway. "So, a jade pin?" he asked doubtfully.

Sherlock nodded, even though he was still looking at Max's mug. "A jade pin worth nine million pounds," he agreed. "Bring it to the tramway, their London hideout."

John looked at him in disbelief. "Hang on," he said. "A _hairpin_ worth nine million pounds? Why so much?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Depends who owned it," he answered.

Max took a sip from her mug without flinching, and Sherlock looked at her in disbelief again. She ignored his expression. "So... we know that either Lukis or Van Coon stole the hairpin," she said. "But where is it now?"

Sherlock's lips ghosted up in a hint of a smile. "I have an idea," he told her.

000

A few minutes later, the three of them them were walking into Shad Sanderson Bank once more. It seemed exactly as it had been the first time that they had walked through the revolving doors and into the grand entry hall of the bank.

That hadn't even been a week ago, but to Max it seemed like so much had changed since then.

"Two operatives based in London," Sherlock stated. "They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps himself to something: a little hairpin."

John gave him a look. "Worth nine million pounds," he said, still sounding doubtful.

Max rolled her eyes. "John, it's not going to change no matter how many times you repeat it," she replied.

Sherlock continued on like he hadn't even heard them. "Eddie Van Coon was the thief," he told them. "He stole the treasure when he was in China."

John and Max shared a confused look, wondering if they had just missed something. "How d'you know it was Van Coon, not Lukis?" John asked. "Even the killer didn't know that."

At that point they had reached the escalators, and before getting on one Sherlock turned to them smugly. "Because of the soap," he answered mystically. With that, he turned and walked off.

"... What's he doing?" Max asked.

John shrugged. "No clue," he answered. He cleared his throat. "I... er... I'm gonna go talk to Sebastian, tell him what happened with the painting. Do you wanna come?"

Max grinned at him. "You just want to get your check," she teased. John began stuttering halfhearted protests, but she just nudged him playfully. "C'mon, let's go. I want to rub it in Sebastian's face that we solved his case."

He gave her a look. "Max..." he trailed off.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine," she said. "I'll be nice."

000

After speaking briefly with Sebastian's secretary, Max and John were standing in Sebastian's office. The man himself was sitting at his desk, writing the check that had been promised.

"He really climbed up onto the balcony?" Sebastian asked in disbelief.

Max smirked. "Yup," she answered.

John nodded. "Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over," he added.

Max shrugged. "Except for aesthetic, but that's a different story," she corrected. Sebastian scowled in dimly-veiled annoyance as he held out a check to John.

"Thanks," John said simply.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was in Van Coon's office with Amanda- who, on paper, was the dead man's PA, but throughout the case Sherlock had gathered enough information to deduce that they had been dating. And if Van Coon was going to steal a hairpin, who else would he give it to?

"Said he bought it in a street market," Amanda commented as she took out her hairpin, at Sherlock's request. She held it out to him.

Sherlock shook his head as he examined the jade pin. "Oh, I don't think that's true," he replied. "I think he pinched it."

Amanda just chuckled awkwardly. "Yeah, that's Eddie," she agreed.

He didn't even look up at her, just continued studying the hairpin. "Didn't know its value, just thought it would suit you," he continued.

She raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Oh?" she asked. "What's it worth?"

Now Sherlock turned his attention to her, smirking slightly as he looked her in the eye. "Nine... million... pounds," he answered.

000

" _NINE MILLION?!"_

Max and John heard Amanda's shout all the way from Sebastian's office, and the three of them shared a confused look. "What-?" Sebastian started.

But then Max connected the dots, and she grabbed John's arm. "We should get going!" she interrupted suddenly, dragging John off towards the door. "We'll probably never see you again, so _bye!_ "

The door slammed behind them, but it was open again in a second as Max stuck her head back in. "Before we leave, do you have any more of those chocolate truffles laying around-?" she attempted.

Before she could finish, John grabbed her and pulled her back into the hallway.

000

By the time Max and John reached the lobby, Sherlock was already there, standing where he had left them as if he had never walked off. "So I'm assuming that screaming was a sign that you found the hairpin?" Max asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Van Coon gave it to his PA," he answered simply. They headed towards the doors of the bank; Max, for one, was glad to finally put the place behind them. "We'll probably hear about it in the news tomorrow. How's Sebastian?"

John blinked in surprise. "Wh- Sebastian?" he repeated, trying very hard but failing to keep his tone casual. "What about Sebastian?" Max resisted the urge to facepalm.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes as they exited the building through the revolving doors. "You obviously went to go see him," he said. "Did he have any of those truffles from last time?"

Max shot John a look. "I didn't have a chance to find out," she replied pointedly. John ignored her.

"Shame," Sherlock said. "I rather liked them."

It didn't seem like he was going to say anything else about Sebastian, which John took to mean that he was safe. Max, however, highly doubted that Sherlock didn't know about the check. For John's sake, she appreciated the fact that he wasn't going to bring it up.

"So... it's lunchtime," Max commented. "Anybody up for a quick bite?"

John nodded. "Sounds good," he agreed.

They both turned to Sherlock, who shook his head. "No, I need to go to the morgue," he told them.

Max blinked. "Sorry, the _morgue?"_ she repeated.

"He, err, likes to whip corpses," John explained.

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. "For _research,_ " he clarified. "And I've only whipped a corpse once- a man's alibi depended on how fast the bruises formed."

Max blinked. "Err... right," she agreed. Last week she would have found that whole conversation extremely disturbing, but after spending the past few days around Sherlock, she was only mildly fazed; it didn't even make the thought of food any less appealing, which was a good thing. "Do you want us to come with-?"

"It's fine," Sherlock interrupted. "Go have lunch."

She and John shared a look, feeling slightly guilty about leaving Sherlock, but then Max nodded. "Alright," she said. "Until next time, then?"

Sherlock nodded. "Until next time," he agreed. They looked at each other for a moment, their gazes lingering for a few seconds, and then Sherlock turned and walked away, his coat flaring out behind him.

Max watched him go until he disappeared into the crowd.

000

"So, I suppose life goes back to normal now, huh?" Max commented.

John nodded. "Yeah, I suppose so," he agreed. "Until we get another case."

The two of them had stopped off at a McDonald's a few blocks down from the bank, and they were currently eating their burgers on a bench in Russel Square Park, where they had spent much of their childhood running around. Max felt strange to be back so many years later and to see that the park looked exactly as it had in her memories, but at the same time it was like an escape from reality, as if time had turned back a few years.

John suddenly laughed dryly, and Max raised an eyebrow. "What?" she asked.

He shook his head, still grinning. "You came over last Tuesday for a quick visit and I ended up dragging you into a murder case," he said. "Things haven't exactly gone to plan."

Max laughed too. "Not exactly," she agreed. "But that's not necessarily a bad thing."

Neither of them spoke for a second, but then John chuckled nervously. "Now that the case is over, err... are you going to stick around?" he asked. "Sherlock likes having you with us, y'know. I do too."

She didn't give him a response right away, and John glanced over at her, waiting for an answer. "I... I don't know," she said. "It's complicated."

John looked at her worriedly. "It's not Sherlock, right?" he wanted to know. "He's not too... _Sherlock?_ "

Max laughed. "No, no, it's not Sherlock," she reassured him. "Not at all." She shrugged. "He's different than everyone else, but it's not in a bad way- for the most part, I mean. I... I really like him, actually."

Something in her tone caught John's attention, and he looked at her closely, noting the sparkle in her eye as she spoke of Sherlock. He had seen that expression before, when they were younger. Did she...?

No, that was impossible. There was no way that Max would fancy _Sherlock_ , of all people. No way.

But if she did...

John eyed her curiously.

Oblivious to John's train of thought, Max remembered her words to Sherlock the other day, when he had asked her why she was helping him. _I'm not sure, really,_ she answered. _All I know is that I keep coming back._ But still, there was a part of her- the normal part, the one with common sense- that told her it would be smart to just walk away right now before she got pulled in any further- because, like it or not, she was already part of it all, part of the crime-solving team that was 221B Baker St.

"Just think about it," John requested. He grinned at her. "It'll be just like old times, y'know, the two of us hanging out!"

She rolled her eyes. "Except that we'd be solving murders instead of playing basketball," she pointed out.

John shrugged, still grinning. "Nah, we're too old for basketball, anyway," he replied.

Max nudged him. "Well, maybe _you_ are, old man," she teased.

He laughed at that, and she did too; and in that moment, just sitting there in the park where she and John had spent their childhood and eating McDonalds, Max didn't feel like she had spent the last few days trying to solve a murder. Rather, she just felt like a normal person, catching up with an old friend.

000

The next morning, just as Sherlock had predicted, the story of the nine million pound hairpin was in the newspapers. The front page of one of those newspapers was currently open on the dining table of 221B Baker St as Sherlock and John had their breakfast.

"Over a thousand years old and it's sitting on her bedside table every night," John said in disbelief, shaking his head.

Sherlock nodded. "He didn't know its value, didn't know why they were chasing him," he told him.

John shrugged. "Should've just got her a lucky cat," he commented.

Sherlock smiled briefly, remembering their visit to the Lucky Cat shop in Chinatown, but then the smile faded from his face. His solemn gaze became distant, and by now John knew his flatmate well enough to realize that he was thinking about something.

"You _mind,_ don't you?" John asked.

Sherlock turned back to him. "What?" he replied.

John nodded towards the newspaper. "That she escaped- General Shan," he said. "It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."

Sherlock grimaced. "It must be a vast network, John," he told him. "Thousands of operatives. You and I- and Max- we barely scratched the surface."

John frowned. "You cracked the code, though, Sherlock," he said. "Maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that _he_ knows it."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, I cracked _this_ code," he corrected. "All the smugglers have to do is pick up another book." With that, he picked up the newspaper and started reading another article, signaling that the conversation was over.

John's gaze drifted out the window, which had a perfect view of the street below them. As he watched, he saw a young man in a hooded jacket walk up to the parking permit dispenser on the over side of the street. The man looked around to make sure that nobody was paying attention to him, then lifted a spray paint can and sprayed his tag onto to back of the machine. He finished his work quickly, then ran off before he could be spotted.

For a second, John considered mentioning it to Sherlock, but he decided against it.

"Have you heard from Max?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

John turned his gaze to him. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock looked up at him, looking slightly annoyed. "Max," he repeated. "Have you heard from her?"

John blinked. "Oh," he said. "No, I- I haven't. Why?"

Sherlock glanced back down at the newspaper. "No reason," he replied.

Even though John knew that Sherlock wasn't telling the full truth, he decided not to mention it. The two of them sat there in silence for a few seconds as John ate his breakfast and Sherlock read the newspaper.

"Is she coming back?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. "I don't know," he answered. "She said she'd think about it."

Sherlock scowled, but he turned back to the newspaper. They were silent again for a few seconds.

"I'm going to text her-" Sherlock started.

John glared at him. "No, you're not," he interrupted. "We're both going to give Max time to think this through."

Sherlock frowned. "But-" he started, but John cut him off with a look. "Fine." He lifted the newspaper again and went back to reading.

For a few seconds neither of them spoke, but then John looked at him curiously. "You _fancy_ her, don't you?" he asked.

Sherlock looked up sharply. "What?" he replied. "No, of course not. You're being ridiculous."

John raised an eyebrow. "Am I, though?" he said.

Sherlock glared at him. "I told you, John, I'm married to my work," he answered.

John nodded. "And Max is part of your work, isn't she?" he challenged.

For a second, Sherlock was silent. But then he turned back to the newspaper. "I don't fancy Max," he said again. "Or anyone, for that matter."

John looked at him for a few seconds, then sighed and finished his breakfast.

000

For the next couple of weeks, Max was occupied with her new job at Bibliotheque, and the events of the mystery gradually faded from her thoughts, replaced by the countless protocols at the office and all the work she had been assigned. It was only once she was settled in at Bibliotheque, about a month after she had first stepped foot in 221B Baker St, that she was able to return.

"Oh, hello, Max!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed happily as she opened the door for her. "It's so good to see you!"

Max smiled. "Hi, Mrs. Hudson," she said. "How've you been?"

Mrs. Hudson waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, fine, fine," she answered. "I suppose you'll be wanting to see the boys?"

Max stepped into the building as Mrs. Hudson opened the door for her. "Yeah, that's what I was hoping for," she agreed.

The landlady smiled widely, clearly pleased that she had returned. "Oh, it's so good to know that Sherlock's getting on well with a young lady!" she gushed. "Go on up, go on up!"

After thanking Mrs. Hudson quickly, Max found herself climbing up the familiar stairs to Sherlock and John's flat. It had only been two weeks since she had been here last, but at the same time it felt like so long ago.

As she got closer to the flat, she began to hear someone playing a violin, and she paused for a second to listen. It was beautiful music, obviously being played by someone who knew what they were doing. The last time she checked, John had never been interested in learning how to play an instrument, so she assumed that it was Sherlock who was playing.

She continued on her way up the stairs, and when she reached the top she saw that the door to the flat was wide open. Quietly, she stepped inside the living room.

The crates of books were gone, as well as the pictures of the Hangzhou characters. Other than that, the flat looked exactly like it had the last time she had seen it: slightly cluttered with a skull on the mantelpiece and a knife pinning the mail down. John was nowhere in sight, but Sherlock was standing by one of the windows, playing a violin.

Even though she hadn't made a noise, Sherlock paused and turned around, taking his violin from his shoulder. His gaze landed on her, and for a few seconds neither of them said anything. But then Max smiled. "Hey," she said.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, clearly surprised to see her there. "Max," he greeted. "Come in."

Max stepped further into the flat, feeling slightly awkward. "I would've stopped by earlier, but I didn't really have a chance," she said. "Sorry about that."

He glanced over her quickly. "You got the job," he stated.

She gave him a small smile. "Yeah," she replied. "I did."

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds, but then Max cleared her throat awkwardly and reached into her bag. "Anyway, I, err... Here," she said, pulling out a spray paint can. "I saw it the other day and I thought of the case, so..."

Sherlock reached out and took the can, glancing over the label declaring the can _Michigan,_ and a yellow band across the bottom that was the same exact shade as the paint that had been used to write the Hangzhou characters. He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow. "Does this mean that you're staying?" he asked.

Max nodded, looking him straight in the eye. "I am," she declared.

Maybe it wasn't the best choice, for her safety or her sanity. But really, when it came down to it, it was the only choice she could have made.

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds, but then he nodded to her, and she nodded back.


	11. With a Bang

A few weeks after the events at the bank, Sherlock was visiting a prison in Minsk, Belarus.

"Just tell me what happened, from the very beginning," Sherlock instructed.

The man sitting in front of him was Barry Berwick, a prison inmate in the usual bright orange jumpsuit. They were sitting at a table in the prison visitor's room, which was empty besides a guard at the doors. The room was so cold that their breaths steamed, but Sherlock barely noticed it, focusing on the case instead.

"We'd been to a bar- a nice place," Berwick answered. "And... I got chattin' with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren't 'appy with that... So when we got back to the 'otel, we end up having a ding-dong, don't we?" Sherlock sighed deliberately, not attempting to cover up his annoyance, but Berwick continued talking. "She was always gettin' at me, sayin' I weren't a real man."

" _Wasn't_ a real man," Sherlock interrupted.

Berwick blinkedin confusion. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock glared. "It's not _weren't,_ it's _wasn't,"_ he corrected. Sighing, Sherlock gestured for him to continue. "Go on."

Berwick nodded. "Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands," he told Sherlock. "And, y'know, my old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives. He learned us how to cut up a beast."

" _Taught,"_ Sherlock stated.

"What?" Berwick demanded.

Sherlock shot him a look. " _Taught_ you how to cut up a beast," he said.

The look on Berwick's face said that he didn't care. "Yeah, well then... then I done it," he continued.

"Did it," Sherlock muttered.

Losing his temper, Berwick slammed his fist angrily down on the table. Sherlock didn't flinch. " _Did_ it!" Berwick shouted angrily. "Stabbed 'er, over and over and over, and I looked down and she weren't-"

The look on Sherlock's face was enough to cause Berwick to pause, and he sighed, regaining control of his temper. "... _wasn't_ moving no more," he said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"... any more," Berwick amended.

There was a moment of silence, but then Berwick sighed. "You've gotta help me," he pleaded. "I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident. I swear."

Sherlock looked at him, not saying a word. Then he stood and started walking away.

"You've gotta help me, Mr. Holmes!" Berwick called. Sherlock paused, but he didn't turn around. "Everyone says you're the best. Without you I'll get hung for this!"

Sherlock just glanced over his shoulder to look at the young man. "No, no, no, Mr. Berwick," he said. "Not at all."

For a moment, Berwick sagged in relief, but then Sherlock smirked. " _Hanged,_ yes," he declared.

He continued on his way out the door.

000

Max was not having a good day.

It had started off when she slept through her alarm and she woke up an hour late. After getting thoroughly scolded by Simmons, she had rushed off to a meeting with a client to review some possible designs. It turned out that they didn't like any of the various choices that Max had offered them, so she now had to come up with a handful of more ideas by the next day. After the meeting she had worked on a few new designs and tried to print one, only to find that the printer was out of ink; so she had changed the cartridge, and ended up spilling some ink on her clothes in the process. Now, after doing her best to wash out the stains, her computer froze.

"How's it going?" Max asked anxiously.

The IT guy who was looking at her computer shrugged. "It's going, alright," he answered. "This might take a while."

Max groaned. "How long is _a while_?" she replied. "I need to get these designs done before tomorrow and-"

"I'll try," he interrupted. "No promises, though."

She let out a pained sigh and sat down in her chair, trying not to show her annoyance. "I can't-" she started, but then her phone beeped.

 _Come to Baker St._

 _SH_

Max glanced around to make sure that nobody could see her; when she was certain that none of her coworkers were paying attention, she texted back a quick reply.

 _I'm at work. Is it an emergency? And aren't you in Belarus?_

Sherlock didn't reply right away as he typed out his reply, and then four rapid-fire texts came in.

 _Just got back._

 _Yes, it's urgent._

 _I'm bored._

 _How do you people keep yourself occupied when you have nothing to do?_

Max sighed wearily. Throughout the past few weeks that she had known Sherlock, she had become more familiar with his eccentric habits. The most prominent one seemed to be that, when he wasn't solving a case, he was constantly in desperate need of something to keep his mind busy; otherwise he would usually either attempt some experiment that would leave him covered in blood, or he would annoy her and John.

Mostly just her, actually.

Normally Max would humor him, and they would carry on a conversation until she got off of work. After a while she found herself looking forward to his daily texts, but today...

 _I'll drop by after work. Do crosswords or something._

Sherlock didn't reply, and Max hoped it meant that he was following her instructions and doing crosswords. But if she was going to be honest with herself, she doubted it. She could practically hear Sherlock scoffing. _Dull_ , she imagined him complaining.

Honestly, sometimes she didn't know what to do with him.

000

A few hours later, Max had arrived at the Baker St flat. By this point, the cozy building was like a second home to Max. She was familiar with every brick, every small crack and dip in the steps leading up to the door. Just the sight of it managed to make her forget all the stress from the day.

Max knocked on the door, and within a matter of seconds Mrs. Hudson was letting her in. "Hi, Mrs. Hudson," Max greeted.

Mrs. Hudson smiled in relief. "Oh, thank goodness you're here, Max!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "Sherlock's upstairs, he mentioned that you'd be coming over." She leaned forward and whispered softly so that nobody else could hear. "He's been in a bad mood ever since he got back. Been pacing back and forth across the living room."

Max sighed. "I guess that means he wasn't doing crosswords," she muttered. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

The landlady waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, you're a doll," she said. "Just get him to stop pacing, will you?"

Max laughed. "No promises, but I'll try," she replied.

Mrs. Hudson gestured her up the stairs, and within a few seconds Max had reached the flat. As usual, the door was open, and just as Mrs. Hudson had said, Max could see Sherlock walking back and forth in the living room, wearing his pajamas and a blue dressing gown. He seemed to be too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice her yet; rather, he was scowling at the air, as if something was wrong with it.

"Hey there," Max greeted.

Sherlock stopped pacing and glanced in her direction, his eyes skimming down her figure. "You should have waited until the carriage was still to take out the ink cartridge," he told her.

By now, Max was used to Sherlock issuing blunt statements like this, so she just raised an eyebrow. "What gave me away?" she asked dryly.

He gestured to her clothes. "The ink stains on your shirt," he answered. "The type of ink is clearly from a printer- you can tell by the coloration- and the pattern of the stains only happens if you try to take out the ink cartridge while the carriage hasn't settled." He was normally enthusiastic when he explained one of his deductions, but right now he sounded utterly dismal. It didn't take a genius to realize that he was in a bad mood.

Max nodded. "Right," she said. "Now, what's wrong?"

Sherlock groaned and threw himself down onto his armchair. "I'm _bored!"_ he complained.

She sat down in John's chair, which was now under joint custody between them. John had protested at first, but eventually he had decided that it wasn't worth it. "What happened to the case in Belarus?" she offered.

He scoffed. "Remarkably unremarkable," he told her. "He killed his girlfriend. He'll be hanged, undoubtedly." He shook his head. " _Emotions._ See what they do to people?"

By now Max had heard this speech a thousand times, so she just nodded as she kicked off her shoes. "Right," she agreed. "Sherlock-"

"You never answered my question," Sherlock interrupted.

Max blinked. "Huh?" she asked.

He shot her a look. "How do you people live like this, with nothing to do?" he demanded. "How do you keep your tiny minds from falling to pieces?!"

She shrugged nonchalantly. "Look up something random online," she suggested. Sherlock looked at her doubtfully, but Max continued talking. "Start watching a new show. Read a book. Eat chocolate. Oh, and apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Get a girlfriend." Sherlock scoffed, clearly not convinced. "What? It's a thing."

He rolled his eyes. "Of course it is," he agreed in a tone that said he didn't agree at all. Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his armchair. "Continue, please."

Max shifted in her seat. "I don't know, Sherlock," she said. "Play a sport? Learn how to knit? Draw?"

"Draw a smiley face for me," Sherlock suddenly requested.

She blinked in surprise. "What?" she asked.

Sherlock reached under the table between the two armchairs, and he held out a spray paint can. It took Max a second to recognize it as the can that she had given him a few weeks ago. "Draw me a smiley face," he repeated.

Max scoffed. "On what, the wall?" she replied. But the expression on Sherlock's face told her the answer, and her eyes widened in disbelief. "No way. No, I'm not... not... _graffiti-ing_ on the wall! Mrs. Hudson-"

"Oh, she'll take it off the rent," Sherlock interrupted flippantly. "It doesn't matter, I need something for target practice."

She gave him a look. "What target practice?" she asked.

Instead of answering, Sherlock held out the paint can. Max looked at him doubtfully, but when it was clear that he wasn't going to budge, she sighed and took the can.

"Right over there," Sherlock told her, gesturing to the wall across from the fireplace.

Max rolled her eyes as she shook the spray paint can, then walked up to where Sherlock had pointed. She eyed the wall for a few seconds, then sprayed two eyes and a smile. The bright yellow of the Michigan paint stood out against the black and white wallpaper.

"With the head," Sherlock instructed.

She sighed wearily. "One head coming right up," she said. She sprayed in a circle around the eyes and mouth, then stepped back to admire her work. "How's that-"

 _BANG! BANG!_

Max ducked down in a panic, too familiar with the sound of gunfire after the night that they had spent at the museum. But then she saw the two bullet holes in the smiley face and the gun in Sherlock's hand, and she pieced two and two together.

"You could have _warned_ me!" she exclaimed.

Sherlock looked at her in confusion. "Why?" he asked. "I wouldn't have hit you."

Max glared at him as she straightened up. "Yeah, but-" she started, but when she realized that she wouldn't get anywhere by arguing with him, she cut herself off. "I didn't know you meant target practice _literally!_ "

"As opposed to metaphorical target practice?" Sherlock replied sarcastically.

Without warning, he fired another shot. Max flinched, then glanced at the wall to see that the new bullet hole was right in the middle of the circle. "You missed the eyes," she told him. "Or the mouth, if you were trying for that."

Sherlock scoffed, then fired again. This time Max was prepared, but she still grimaced at the loud noise. "I was making a nose," he replied.

"... Of course," Max agreed sagely. "A nose. What else could it be?"

Suddenly there was the sound of someone hurrying up the stairs, and Max whirled around to see John running up the stairs, apparently just returning from work. His eyes were frantic, clearly having heard the gunshots, and his hands were over his ears. "What the _hell_ are you two doing?!" he demanded.

Sherlock crossed his arms sulkily. "Bored," he muttered.

John blinked. "What?" he asked.

"BORED!" Sherlock shouted.

Angrily, he fired off another shot at the wall, then twisted his gun arm around his back and fired at the wall again. "Bored, bored, _bored!_ " Sherlock yelled.

Obviously confused, John glanced at Max, who shrugged. "He's bored," she said simply.

Before Sherlock could fire off another shot, John hurried forward and snatched the gun from him, who didn't put up much of a fight. "Don't know what's got into the criminal classes," Sherlock grumbled as he walked towards the wall. "Good job I'm not one of them."

John quickly slid the clip out of the gun and put it away in a small safe on the kitchen table. "So you take it out on the wall," he stated.

Sherlock ran his fingers down the painted smiley face. "Ah, but the wall had it coming," he replied.

John frowned. "Where did the smiley face come from?" he asked.

Max raised a hand sheepishly. "Guilty as charged," she said. John gave her a look, clearly saying _I thought you were better than this._ She shrugged. "He wanted target practice."

John shot Sherlock an exasperated look. "What about that Russian case?" he asked.

Sherlock settled onto the couch, laying down and kneading the arm of the sofa with his toes. "Belarus," he corrected. "Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

John sighed. "Ah, shame," he muttered. He headed over to the kitchen and momentarily glanced at the mess at the table, but seemed to decide that it wasn't worth it and headed to the fridge instead. "Anything in?" he asked. "I'm starving. Max, do you want-" He opened the fridge-

\- and instantly slammed it closed.

Max frowned. "What's wrong?" she asked.

John turned around, his face blank. "It's a head," he answered. "A severed head."

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock said.

Max groaned. "Oh, God," she muttered.

John walked back into the living room. "There's a head in the fridge," he stated.

Sherlock looked at him calmly. "Yes," he agreed.

"A _bloody head!"_ John shouted.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" he challenged.

Max shot him a look. "Somewhere else, maybe?" she suggested.

Sherlock looked from Max to John and back again, clearly confused. "You don't _mind,_ do you?" he asked.

John just stared at him blankly.

Max glanced at the fridge. "A tad bit, yeah?" she answered.

Sherlock shrugged. "I got it from Bart's morgue," he explained. "I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death."

John and Max shared a look, both of them clearly thinking _He's insane._ But then, nothing was new about that.

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case," Sherlock commented, clearly oblivious to the fact that Max and John were still hung up on the head in the fridge.

John blinked. "Uh, yes," he agreed. He glanced at where Max was sitting in his armchair, then sighed and sat down in Sherlock's chair instead.

Max glanced from Sherlock to John in confusion. Of course, by now she had heard the story of the first case that Sherlock and John had solved together, when Sherlock had managed to track down a taxi driver who just so happened to be a serial killer based on the fact that one of the victims was dressed in all pink. But that wasn't the reason that she was confused. "Wait, he wrote it up where?" she asked.

John groaned. "Nowhere, really-" he started.

Sherlock gestured to his laptop, which was laying off to the side. "Oh, he has a blog," he interrupted.

Max looked at John, her eyes going wide in surprise. "No way!" she exclaimed. "You have a _blog?!_ "

John sighed, stubbornly not making eye contact with her. "... Yeah," he admitted.

She grinned at him. "That's a good idea!" she exclaimed. "I thought you didn't like writing!"

He shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with her praise. "I don't, really," he replied. "It's just... I don't know, after telling you about the case and seeing how much you liked it I figured that other people would want to hear about it too."

Sherlock reached over to grab a magazine from the coffee table next to the couch. "You called it 'A Study in Pink,'" he said.

John nodded. "Well, y'know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone... There was a lot of pink," he explained. "Did you like it?"

Sherlock flipped open the magazine, and for a few seconds it covered his face. "Erm... no," he answered.

John looked at him sharply. "Why not?" he demanded. "I thought you'd be flattered."

Sherlock snapped the magazine closed angrily and glared at John. " _Flattered?_ " he repeated incredulously. He raised his index fingers in mocking quotation marks. "'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'"

Max raised an eyebrow at John. "Seriously?" she asked.

John sighed, knowing that he was in the minority here. "Now, hang on a minute," he requested. "I didn't mean that in a-"

"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a _nice_ way!" Sherlock exclaimed sarcastically. He shook his head. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's the Prime Minister-"

John grimaced. "I know," he muttered.

Max frowned. "Isn't that important, though...?" she asked.

"... or who's sleeping with who-" Sherlock continued.

John nodded wearily. "Whether the Earth goes around the sun..." he added.

Sherlock shot John a look. "Not that again," he snapped. "It's _not important._ "

Max blinked, trying to wrap her mind around the fact that there was actually somebody who didn't know that the Earth went around the sun- and that he was sitting right here in the same room with her. "You're kidding, right?" she said. "People found that out, like, centuries ago."

John nodded, gesturing in Max's direction. "Exactly!" he exclaimed. He shifted in his seat so that he could face Sherlock better. "It's primary school stuff. _How_ can you not know that?!"

Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, clearly impatient with the way that the conversation was going. "Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it," he answered.

Max and John shared a confused look, both of them clearly lost. "...Deleted it?" John echoed.

"As in, deleted it off the computer?" Max added.

Sherlock swung his legs off of the couch and sat up so that he was facing the two of them, his eyes shining furiously. "Listen," he said. He pointed to his head. "This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. _Really_ useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kind of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

Both John and Max were silent as they stared at Sherlock, trying to comprehend what he had just said. Max nodded slowly, and for a second it seemed like John was going to begin accepting the fact that he was just going to have to put up with this.

Only for a second, though.

"But it's the _solar system!"_ he protested.

Sherlock groaned. "Oh, hell, what does that _matter?!_ " he exclaimed. John looked at him in frustration, and Sherlock started flailing his hands around beside his head in an attempt to get his point across. "So we go around the sun! If we went round the moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots." He glared at John, angrier now than Max had ever seen him. "Put _that_ in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." With that, he laid back down on the couch, turning his back on John and curling up in a ball.

The flat was dead silent for a few seconds as Sherlock faced the wall, John glared at him furiously, and Max looked back and forth between them as she wondered if she should say something. Then, without warning, John stood up and started walking towards the living room door.

Apparently hearing him, Sherlock turned around in alarm. "Where are you going?" he asked.

John glared at him as he pulled on his jacket. "Out," he answered tightly. "I need some air."

Max frowned. "Hold up-" she started, but he had already headed out the door. "Wait, John-"

"Let him go," Sherlock interrupted.

She shot him a look. "And you!" she exclaimed. "Don't even get me started on you!"

Sherlock blinked in confusion and sat up again. " _Me?_ " he repeated incredulously. "What did _I_ do?!"

Max scoffed. "A fair bit, I'd say!" she retorted. "You could have handled that better!"

He looked at her curiously. "You're angry," he stated.

For a second, Max was tempted to snap at him; but the earnest look in his eyes made her anger fade away, and she sighed wearily. "No, it... it's fine," she said. "It's just... he did it for you, y'know, writing that blog. He wanted to impress you. The least you could have done was to show him some respect."

Sherlock was silent as he stared at her, trying to wrap his mind around what she had just said. Max didn't try to break the silence, just let him dwell on that by himself.

"Have you and John had a little domestic?" Mrs. Hudson's voice asked. Max and Sherlock glanced towards the door to see the landlady walking in, carrying bags of groceries for them.

Max got to her feet and took some of the bags from Mrs. Hudson. "It'll be fine, Mrs. Hudson," she reassured her. The two of them headed over to the kitchen and dumped the bags on the table. "Don't worry. John just needed some air."

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there," she remarked. "He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."

Sighing loudly, Sherlock stood up and made his way towards the window on the far side of the room. Instead of going around the coffee table like any normal person, he walked over it as if that was an everyday occurrence and stopped in front of the window, staring out at the streets of London. "Look at that, Mrs. Hudson," he said. "Quiet, calm, peaceful... Isn't it hateful?"

Mrs. Hudson brandished a receipt at him before putting it on the kitchen table. "Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock," she reassured him. "A nice murder- that'll cheer you up."

Sherlock scoffed. "Can't come too soon," he answered.

Max sighed. "You need a hobby," she declared. She gathered up the shopping bags and passed them to Mrs. Hudson. "Here, Mrs. Hudson. Thanks for shopping."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at her. "Oh, it was nothing," she replied as she took the bags. She headed towards the living room, and she was almost out of the flat when she saw the smiley face. "Hey, what've you done to my bloody wall!"

Sherlock smirked as he turned to admire his and Max's handiwork. Max, on the other hand, groaned.

"I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" Mrs. Hudson accused, then turned and stormed down the stairs.

For a few seconds, they were silent, but then Max sighed. "Y'know, I've heard people say that if you hit a wall, the next logical step is to _not_ bang your head against it," she commented. "Figuratively, of course." She stood up. "I'm going to see if Mrs. Hudson needs any help."

Sherlock scoffed as she walked out of the flat. "Who said anything about figuratively banging my head?" he called after her.

But then there was a very literal _BANG!_ from the street outside, shaking the entire building. Max whirled back around just in time to see the wall where Sherlock had been standing by only moments ago explode in a gust of glass and dirt, and before she could even react, he was sent violently flying forward and to the floor.

He didn't get up.

" _SHERLOCK!_ " Max cried.


	12. Fortune Cookies and Missile Plans

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

 _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

 _One. Two. Three..._

Max paced back and forth in the waiting room of the hospital, trying and failing to hide her anxiety. Barely an hour had passed since Sherlock had been rushed to the hospital, but she still couldn't shake the feeling of complete and utter helplessness.

The last hour had went by so quickly that it didn't even feel like an hour, but she remembered everything that had happened in a series of vivid snapshots, each detail magnified by the sheer terror she had felt at the time.

First was the sight of Sherlock's limp form sprawled out on the floor of the flat, surrounded by the debris of the blown-out windows. She had run up to him and started shaking him, heedless of the glass and rubble covering the floor around him. _Sherlock! Sherlock!_ she remembered herself shouting.

Next was Sherlock being rolled into an ambulance by paramedics on a cot. She wasn't exactly sure who had called the ambulance, but she knew that Mrs. Hudson and a few of the other neighbors were gathered around, watching anxiously. There were some policemen there too, holding back the crowd and trying to organize the chaos.

Then she was at the hospital, getting a cut on her hand stitched up. She hadn't even noticed it, but she assumed that she had cut herself when she had rushed to Sherlock's side after the explosion. Sherlock had been rushed off into another room when they had first arrived at the hospital, and she hadn't seen him since.

She had been released once her stitches were done, but instead of heading back to Baker St, or her own flat, Max decided to stay in the hospital and wait for Sherlock to be released. That had been about an hour ago, and over the course of that hour leading up to now, she had grown more and more anxious about Sherlock.

"Are you Max? Max Arthur?"

Max looked up to see a doctor standing there, looking extremely tired. "Yeah," she answered. "Is Sherlock-"

He brushed her concerns off with a wave of his hand. "Your friend is fine," he said. "He's asking for you."

She sagged in relief, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "Thanks," she replied.

The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly and stepped closer to her. "Err... he seems to be in quite a mood right now, to put it lightly," he told her quietly so that nobody else could hear. "He threatened to tell one of the nurse's husbands that she was having an affair. I figured I should warn you, so you know what you're getting into."

Max grinned happily, somehow finding this more reassuring than anything the doctor had said before. "Oh, don't worry about that," she reassured him. "That means he's back to normal."

The doctor just looked at her blankly.

000

As soon as Max stepped into Sherlock's room it was clear that he was indeed back to normal.

"They won't let me leave," he stated.

Max raised an eyebrow as she stepped into the small room, closing the door behind her. She held her hands behind her back. "What?" she asked.

Sherlock crossed his arms in annoyance. "There was an explosion!" he complained. "The most excitement that we've had for weeks, and I'm stuck here in the hospital! I need to be out there, at the crime scene before Lestrade and the Yard mess up the evidence!"

Just as he had been doing back in the flat, Sherlock was pacing back and forth in the middle of the room. This time, though, he was dressed in a hospital gown, and he looked significantly aggravated at the fact that he was stuck here. There was a hospital bed in the middle of the room, as well as the normal medical machinery and a chair next to the bed.

"Err... about that," Max said. "I don't think you'll be finding much evidence."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, silently asking the question.

"Mrs. Hudson says that it was a gas leak in the empty building across the street," she explained. "It's not a crime you can solve or anything. It's just a perfectly normal gas leak explosion... Well, as perfectly normal as a gas leak can be."

For a few seconds Sherlock was quiet as he stared at her, seeming unwilling to believe what she was saying. Then he scowled. "How dull," he grumbled. "I was looking forward to some action."

Max shrugged. "Sorry," she said. She looked at him carefully. "You're okay, right? No life-threatening injuries I should be worried about?"

He scowled. "I'm perfectly fine," he grumbled. "I don't know why they won't let me go-"

Before Sherlock could get started again, Max held up a hand to stop him. "Well, I don't know about getting you out of here, but I have something to keep you occupied," she told him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow doubtfully. "What is it?" he asked.

She moved her hands from behind her back, revealing what she had been hiding: a bag of fortune cookies that she had just bought from the Chinese takeout restaurant down the street. "John told me you think you can guess the fortunes," she answered. "Prove it."

He eyed the bag warily, considering her offer... and then he grabbed the bag.

"If you get it right, you eat the cookie," she told him. "If you get it wrong, I eat."

Sherlock gave her a look. "This is just an excuse for you to eat fortune cookies," he accused.

Max shrugged, a teasing grin on her face. "Maybe," she admitted.

He rolled his eyes and reached into the bag, pulling out one of the cookies. "Fine," he said.

Max smirked. "The game is on," she declared.

000

The next morning, John found himself frantically running through the streets of London. He had spent the night at Sarah's, and the words of the early morning newsreader echoing through his head: _There's been a massive explosion in central London... As yet, there are no reports of any casualties, and the police are unable to say if there is any suspicion of terrorist involvement..._

As soon as he had heard, he had hurried back.

He reached Baker St to find that there was a small crowd gathered around the police cordon, straining for a better look at the destruction. But for John, the little that he could see was far more than enough; he had seen the aftermath of explosions before, of course, but he hadn't ever imagined something like that happening at Baker St, of all places.

Irritated, he pushed his way through the crowd, trying to get to the flat. "'Scuse me, can I get through?" he asked. "'Scuse me."

By this point he had reached the front of the crowd, where a handful of police officers held back the small mass of people. "Can I go through?" he asked. "I live over there."

The officer nodded and let John pass. He unlocked the now-familiar black door, but before he entered the building he turned around to look at his surroundings. There was, of course, the crowd gathering around, and across the street there was a fire engine with hoses that had yet to be reeled back in. A mix of bricks and dust were scattered all over the road, and as for the buildings itself, all the windows-presumably blasted in from the explosion- had been boarded up. Even though the whole street bore signs of the blast, the building directly across the street from 221 seemed to be the origin of the whole thing; the front of the ground and first floor had been completely blown out, leaving the rooms exposed to the air.

In fact, the only building that seemed to be no worse for wear was Speedy's Cafe, right next to the door to 221. John assumed that it had been protected by its metal roll-down screen, which had been pulled down at the time of the explosion.

John hesitated a moment longer, then turned and hurried into the flat.

000

Max was in the middle of refereeing a verbal sparring match when John burst into the room.

"Sherlock, Max!" he exclaimed as he ran into the flat, clearly panicked. From the tousled state of his hair, it was obvious that he had hurried here as soon as he had woken up, with no thought to his appearance.

The worried look in his eyes faded slightly when he saw that both of them were alright, but his gaze fell as he took in the boarded-up windows and the state of the floors, which had yet to be swept of debris. "Oh, c'mon, John, it's not that bad," Max said. "A little cleaning up and it'll be back to normal."

John turned his gaze to the two of them, as if just noticing the tense atmosphere of the room. Max, standing by one of the windows, was wearing casual jeans and a red plaid shirt, while Sherlock was sitting in his chair and- for once- was dressed appropriately in a purple shirt. The detective was holding his violin on his lap, plucking the strings randomly as he glared at John's chair.

In John's chair was none other than Mycroft Holmes.

It was definitely a startling sight, to see the two Holmes brothers in the same room. John had first seen them together at the conclusion of his first case with Sherlock about a month ago, but Max's first encounter had been just earlier in the day.

She still remembered it with eerie clarity.

 _"He already has a visitor?" Max asked doubtfully._

 _It was the morning after the explosion, and she had went to the hospital as soon as she woke up to make sure that Sherlock didn't cause any problems while he was being released. Because he was... well... Sherlock, she had expected him to be moping around in his room, complaining of boredom and threatening nurses._

 _Apparently that was far from what was actually going on._

 _"Oh, yes, a man came just a few minutes ago," the receptionist answered. "He's in there right now." She glanced around to make sure that nobody was listening, then leaned forward and whispered to Max. "It sounds like they're having quite a row."_

 _Max groaned. "Oh God," she muttered._

 _After making her promise to calm both Sherlock and this mysterious visitor- Max wasn't sure why people always thought she was in charge of whatever problems Sherlock got himself in- the receptionist agreed to let Max in. So that was how she ended up opening the door to Sherlock's hospital room to see him and Mycroft glaring at each other._

 _For the most part, neither of them seemed surprised to see her there; knowing them, they had probably known that she would come eventually. Max, for her part, was dumbfounded._

 _Of course, she knew that Sherlock and Mycroft were brothers. It was completely normal for Mycroft to visit the hospital, knowing that Sherlock was there. But actually seeing them in the same room..._

 _Side by side, Max found it harder to see the similarities between them as she had earlier. They were about the same height, but Sherlock's lithe form seemed even more defined next to his older brother's slightly rounder shape. Mycroft was dressed in a flawless black suit, as he had been the first time she had seen him, and his sleek appearance made Sherlock's messy hair and crinkled clothes seem even more sloppy than they usually were. But despite that, they had at least one thing in common; they were both glaring at each other in undisguised annoyance. The room was charged with not only their irritation but also their combined brainpower, which was so strong that Max felt as if it were actually physically there in the room, that she could reach out and touch it._

 _For a few seconds, she just stared at them, and they stared back at her._

 _Then she cleared her throat. "Err... hi?" she offered._

 _That seemed to break the spell in the room, and the atmosphere became noticeably less tense. "Max," Sherlock said. "You're late."_

 _She blinked. "Late?" she repeated. "I never said when I would be here."_

 _Sherlock grabbed his long ulster coat from its spot on the chair. "Your alarm on your phone is set for 8:30 on the weekends," he said. "If you woke up with your alarm, washed up, then caught a cab to the hospital, factoring in traffic and traffic lights, you should have been here at about 9:30, which was..." He glanced at his watch quickly. "... ten minutes ago. So yes, you're late." In a final flourish, he shrugged his coat on, causing it to flare out behind him for a moment as it settled._

 _Max gave him a look. "I stopped for tea on the way here," she said. "But how did you know that my alarm's set for 8:30?"_

 _Instead of answering, Sherlock brushed past her as he walked out the door. "We can finish this at Baker St, brother mine," Sherlock told Mycroft mockingly. "Are you coming, Max?" He walked out without waiting for a response._

 _Max remained standing there in disbelief, still trying to catch up with what Sherlock had said. Mycroft sighed and nodded to her respectfully. "Ms. Arthur," he greeted. He walked out after Sherlock._

 _Even though Max was still slightly confused, a glance at the empty room convinced her to turn and follow the two brothers out of the hospital._

"I saw it on the telly," John said, bringing Max's attention back to the present. "Are you both okay?"

Sherlock looked up from his violin absently. "Hmm?" he asked. He glanced around at the mess of glass and rubble that was still on the floor as if he had forgotten that it was there, then turned back to John. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently."

John turned to Max, waiting for her answer. She shrugged. "I had to get stitches," she told him, holding up her hand as evidence. "It's fine, though. Nobody dies from stitches."

Sherlock suddenly plucked his violin loudly, bringing everyone's attention back to him, and he turned his gaze on Mycroft. "I can't," he said.

Mycroft looked at him in annoyance. "Can't?" he echoed.

Sherlock nodded. "The stuff I've got on is just too big," he answered. "I can't spare the time."

John looked at Max in confusion, both of them knowing full well that Sherlock didn't have any cases right now, but Max just shook her head at him. _Don't,_ she mouthed.

"Never mind your usual trivia," Mycroft snapped. "This is of national importance."

Apparently national importance wasn't the same as Sherlock importance, because the detective just plucked at his violin again. "How's the diet?" he asked flippantly.

Max shot him a look. "Sherlock," she warned.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine," he grumbled.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, refusing to rise to the insult. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John," he said, turning around to face John, who blinked in surprise. "I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent, and Max refuses to take a side."

Max held up her hands defensively. "Hey, I'm smarter than to get in the middle of this," she replied. "I'm just here to make sure that we don't have a second explosion in two days."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "If you're so keen, why don't _you_ investigate it?" he demanded.

Mycroft shook his head adamantly. "No, no, no," he answered. "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the Korean elections so..." He trailed off when he saw all three of them perk up, and he smiled humorlessly. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this, it requires..." He grimaced. "... _legwork."_

A sudden twang echoed through the flat as Sherlock missed a chord. They all grimaced at the sound, Sherlock especially. "How's Sarah, John?" he asked, not-so-subtly changing the topic. "How was the lilo?"

Mycroft shook his head condescendingly, not even looking up at John. "Sofa, Sherlock," he corrected. "It was the sofa."

Sherlock looked at John again, then nodded. "Oh, yes, of course," he agreed.

John blinked. "How...?" he trailed off incredulously. "Oh, never mind." He plopped down at a seat at the dining table, apparently too exasperated to keep standing anymore.

Mycroft leaned back in the armchair, eyeing John curiously. "Sherlock's business seems to be booming ever since you and he became... _pals,_ " he commented. Sherlock shot Mycroft a dark look, but the older Holmes brother continued on. "What's he like to live with?" he asked, gesturing to Sherlock. "Hellish when Max isn't here, I imagine."

John shrugged. "I'm never bored," he answered vaguely.

Max blinked. "What do I have to do with this?" she asked.

Mycroft gave her a look. "Surely you see it," he said. "He actually _behaves_ when you're around."

Apparently Mycroft's definition of _behaving_ was different than Max's.

Sherlock's glare deepened, obviously not happy with the direction that this conversation was going, but Mycroft paid him no mind and stood up, straightening his suit. He picked up a folder from the coffee table and held it out to Sherlock, only to be met with a stubborn glare. Sighing, Mycroft turned and held out to folder to Max. She glanced at Sherlock, who shook his head at her.

She took the folder anyway.

"What's that?" John asked.

Sherlock shot Max a poisonous look, but she just shrugged. _Sorry,_ she mouthed. He turned back to his violin and began furiously rosining his bow.

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends," Mycroft explained, oblivious to the silent communication between Max and Sherlock. "A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

John raised an eyebrow. "Jumped in front of a train?" he guessed.

Mycroft nodded. "Seems the logical assumption," he agreed.

"But?" John asked.

Mycroft blinked. "But?" he repeated.

John shrugged. "Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," he pointed out.

Sherlock, still rosining his bow, smirked broadly.

Mycroft sighed. "The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system- the Bruce-Parington Programme, it's called," he explained. Max, who had already heard the details earlier when Mycroft had explained it to Sherlock, passed the folder to John. "The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John looked up from the folder to snigger. "That wasn't very clever," he commented. Sherlock smirked his agreement, and Max glared at him, remembering the very heated words that he and Mycroft had shared over the topic just a few minutes before John had entered the room. He sobered at the look on her face.

Mycroft shot John an irritated look. "It's not the only copy," he explained, in a tone that made it clear that he wasn't amused. "But it _is_ secret. And missing."

John raised an eyebrow. " _Top_ secret?" he pried.

Max sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "John... try to be a bit more tactful, will you?" she asked. She rolled her eyes at Mycroft. _Boys,_ she seemed to be saying.

The look on Mycroft's face made it clear that he agreed with her, but he didn't say anything about it. "We think West must have taken the memory stick," he said, reining them in again. "We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He glanced at Sherlock. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Despite the serious tone of his brother's voice, Sherlock finished rosining his bow with a flourish, and he looked up at Mycroft with a blank expression. "I'd like to see you try," he replied.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Think it over," he instructed.

The expression on Sherlock's face made it clear that wasn't going to happen.

Mycroft turned to John and offered his hand. "Goodbye, John," he said. John stood politely and shook the offered hand hand. Mycroft looked at Max and nodded to her. "Max." She nodded back, and Mycroft smiled at both of them. "See you _very_ soon."

Sherlock suddenly started playing an irritating tune on his violin without any trace of shame. The other three shared a look, and Mycroft took that as his cue to leave. The older Holmes brother grabbed his jacket and walked out the door without a backwards glance. The door closed behind him, and there was the sound of him walking down the stairs.

And Sherlock kept playing.

"Oh, bloody hell, he's gone already!" Max exclaimed. "You can stop playing!"

Slightly put out, Sherlock put his violin down. John took his seat at the table again, and Max walked over to sit in John's armchair. They waited until they heard the door to the building close, and as soon as they did, Max glared at Sherlock. "That was rather rude," she said pointedly.

Sherlock blinked. "What was?" he asked, seeming genuinely confused.

Max gestured to the door. "Y'know, the whole thing with... Oh, never mind, you probably don't know," she grumbled.

John frowned at Sherlock. "No, you're right," he told Max. "Why'd you lie, Sherlock? You've got nothing going on, not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding." Max, despite herself, couldn't help but smile at the memory of the yellow smiley face, and Sherlock seemed just as amused. "Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why shouldn't I?" he challenged.

John eyed him for a few seconds, but then he nodded. "Oh, I see!" he exclaimed. "Sibling rivalry. Now where getting somewhere."

It seemed like Sherlock was about to retort, but his phone rang before he had the chance to say anything. Sighing, he fished his phone out of his pocket and answered it. "Sherlock Holmes," he said.

Max and John were silent as they watched Sherlock listen to whoever was on the other side of the line. Even though neither of them could hear what was being said, they could both tell from Sherlock's expression that it was good news.

"Of course," Sherlock said to the other person. "How could I refuse?"

He ended the call and headed towards the door. "Lestrade," he explained. "I've been summoned. Coming, John?"

John nodded. "If you want me to," he agreed.

Sherlock smirked as he grabbed his coat. "Of course," he replied. "I'd be lost without my blogger." He glanced over at Max. "And you, Max?"

She shrugged. "It's not like I have anything else to do today," she commented. "Let's go."


	13. Not a Gas Leak

A short cab ride later found Max, Sherlock, and John at New Scotland Yard, speaking with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade outside of his office.

The Detective Inspector was a proud-looking man with greying hair, about the same height as Max. He seemed to be a fairly easygoing guy, and she could already tell that they were going to get along.

"So you're Max," Lestrade commented. He held out his hand, and Max shook it. "I've heard a lot about you from Dimmock."

Max smiled. "Well, I'm glad I made a good impression," she replied. "Sherlock and John mentioned you a few times. I'm glad to finally meet you."

Before Lestrade had a chance to reply, Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. John and Lestrade looked at him in annoyance, but the detective ignored both of them. "I hope you didn't just call us here for idle chitchat, Lestrade," he said. "You mentioned a case?"

The annoyed expression on Lestrade's face deepened, but Max could tell that it wasn't Sherlock that he was annoyed with now. "I did," he agreed. "You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones."

Sherlock nodded. "Obviously," he answered.

Max rolled her eyes. "Only the funniest and most surprising will do," she remarked dryly. Sherlock shot her a look, and she just grinned at him.

Lestrade grimaced. "You'll love this, then," he told Sherlock. "That explosion-"

"Gas leak, yes?" Sherlock interrupted. He frowned as a female detective walked past, with notable brown curly hair. The detective scowled back and kept walking.

Max raised an eyebrow at John, who shrugged. _Sally Donovan,_ he mouthed. Max nodded in understanding; both John and Sherlock had mentioned the sergeant many times, mostly speaking about her unexplainable dislike of Sherlock.

"No," Lestrade said, answering Sherlock's question.

Max blinked in surprise, and both Sherlock and John seemed just as confused. "No?" Sherlock repeated.

Lestrade nodded. "No," he echoed. "Made to look like one."

"What?" John asked.

"Why?" Max added.

Lestrade walked into his office, and the rest of them followed. Max glanced around at the sleek room, definitely a step up from Braddock's desk; for the most part the entire office seemed to be neat and modern, and there was a white envelope on the middle of the desk.

"Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box- a _very_ strong box," Lestrade told them. "Inside it was this." He gestured to the envelope, and Max saw the elegant handwriting on the front: _Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You haven't opened it?" he asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "It's addressed to you, isn't it?" he replied. "We've X-rayed it. It's not booby trapped."

Sherlock took the envelope and eyed it carefully. Then he walked towards an anglepoise lamp across the room, examining the envelope under the light. "Nice stationary," he commented. "Bohemian."

Max raised an eyebrow. "That's what you're worried about?" she asked.

He gave her a look. "It's from the Czech Republic," he explained. Before she could reply, he had returned his attention to the envelope in his hands. "No fingerprints?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No," he answered.

Sherlock frowned and brought the envelope closer to his face. "She used a fountain pen," he stated. "A Parker Duofold- iridium nib."

John blinked. "She?" he repeated.

"Obviously," Sherlock stated.

The other three glanced at each other to make sure that none of them had made the connection. When it was clear that they hadn't, John sighed wearily. "Obviously," he echoed.

Apparently Sherlock had found all that he could from the envelope, because he started towards the desk for a letter opener. But Max had already beaten him to it, and she held it out to him with a smug look on her face. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he took the letter opener from her, but there was an amused look on his face as he carefully slit the envelope open...

... an amused look that quickly turned to one of surprise as he took out a pink phone.

All four of them were silent for a few seconds as they stared at the phone, but then Max burst out laughing. "A pink phone?" she asked. "All that trouble for a pink phone? What type of twisted sense of humor does this person have?" But then she realized that Sherlock and John were staring at the phone in horror, like they had seen a ghost, and the laughter slid from her face. "Uh... guys? What's wrong?"

John's expression didn't change. "That's... that's the phone," he said. "The pink phone."

Lestrade looked at them doubtfully. "What, from the Study in Pink?" he asked.

Sherlock scowled as he examined the phone. "Well, obviously it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like-" he started, but he stopped when he realized what Lestrade had just said. "The Study in Pink? You read his blog?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in exasperation. "Of course I read his blog!" he exclaimed. "We all do!" Max could practically feel John's ego growing by the moment as his earlier argument was validated. "Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the sun?"

Someone sniggered by the door, and they all turned to see Sally Donovan there, in the process of dropping off some files. Sherlock tensed up, and for a second it seemed like he was about to say something; but Max put a hand on his arm. He glanced at her, considering, then turned back to Sally and fixed her with a murderous glare instead. The sergeant rolled her eyes and left the office.

John at least had the good grace to be embarrassed.

"It isn't the same phone," Sherlock declared, bringing the conversation back to the mystery at hand. Max saw that he was looking at the connection sockets, none of which seemed to have been used. "This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it _look_ like the same phone... which means your blog has a far wider readership." He shot John an irritated look, and John did his best to ignore it.

Max reached out and took the phone from Sherlock, glancing it over. Lestrade looked at Sherlock, clearly waiting for him to snap at Max for interrupting his thought process, but Sherlock didn't say anything. Clearly confused, Lestrade shared a look with John, who just shrugged.

"Any thoughts?" Sherlock asked.

She shrugged. "Nothing," she said. She passed it back to Sherlock, who proceeded to switch it on.

As soon as it was on, the phone beeped. " _You have one new message,_ " a voice alert said.

There was a beep that signaled that the message was playing, but there was no sound after that. Max and Sherlock shared a look, but before either of them could comment, there was the sound of five short pips and a longer tone afterwards: the Greenwich Time Signal.

"Is that it?" John wanted to know.

Sherlock scowled at the phone. "No, that's _not_ it," he answered. Max leaned closer so that she could see the screen: a picture of a dark, unfurnished room. The dreary wallpaper was peeling, and there was a tall mirror in one of the corners. A smaller mirror was on the wall above a fireplace.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that?!" Lestrade exclaimed. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"

Max jumped in surprise, startled by how close Lestrade was; she hadn't noticed him walk around his desk to look at the picture. The thought made her realize how close she was standing to Sherlock too, and she scooted away to give him space.

"It's a warning," Sherlock told them.

John raised an eyebrow. "A warning?" he repeated.

Sherlock scowled. "Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that," he explained. "Five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again." He waved the phone at them with the picture still on the screen, then turned and headed out of the office. "And I've seen this place before."

Max and John shared a look, then sighed and headed after Sherlock. "Hang on," John stated. " _What's_ gonna happen again?"

Sherlock turned around to face them and raised his hands, splaying his fingers dramatically. " _Boom!_ " he declared.

He walked off, followed by Max and Sherlock. Lestrade sighed, then hurried after them.

000

Within a few minutes they had returned to Baker St, of all places. Walking past the rubble from the explosion, Sherlock led them into the building.

Max picked up her pace so that she and Sherlock were walking side by side. "What does this have to do with the picture?" she asked quietly.

Instead of going up to the flat like Max thought they would, Sherlock walked past the stairs and towards the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat. "You'll see," he replied. He smirked at her annoyed expression, then turned to the door in front of them. " _Mrs. Hudson!"_

000

It turned out that Mrs. Hudson didn't appreciate being rudely dragged out of her flat- Max didn't blame her- but she still cooperated in showing them an empty flat, of all places.

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock?" the landlady asked. "When you first came to see about your flat?"

She, Max, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were currently standing outside the unused flat below their own, labeled 221A. Max eyed the grimy door doubtfully as Mrs. Hudson unlocked the padlock on the door under Sherlock's orders. "What are we doing here?" Max whispered to John.

He just shrugged.

Sherlock stooped so that he could examine the door's keyhole, and he scowled. "The door's been opened recently," he said.

Mrs. Hudson blinked in confusion. "No, can't be," she replied. "That's the only key." Sherlock pulled off the padlock and flipped through the key ring to unlock the keyhole. "I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements."

Sherlock opened the door to the flat and walked inside. John and Lestrade followed him, leaving Max and Mrs. Hudson standing there. "I had a place once when I was first married," Mrs. Hudson commented. "Black mold all up the walls..."

She trailed off when she saw that the other three had headed into the flat, and she sighed in exasperation. "Oh, men!" she exclaimed. She sighed and patted Max on the shoulder. "Have fun, dearie." With that, the landlady turned and headed back up to her own flat.

Sighing, Max followed the others into 221A.

000

As usual, it turned out that Sherlock was right; 221A matched the picture from the phone exactly. The room was just as dingy as it had seemed in the picture, and Max grimaced as a dank smell reached her. There was no doubt that this was where they were supposed to go.

But more importantly, she noted that there was something in the middle of the room. The others seemed to have seen it too.

"Shoes," John stated.

Max nodded. "Shoes," she echoed.

There was indeed a pair of sneakers there, looking strangely out of place in the middle of the dirty room. They were placed an equal distance from the walls, their toes pointing towards the door as if they were waiting for someone.

Now that she thought about it, they probably were.

Sherlock took a step towards the shoes, but John held out a hand to stop him. "He's a bomber, remember," he cautioned.

That caused Sherlock to pause for a moment, but he continued on anyway. Max and John shared a worried look, reading the other's expression perfectly; then Max sighed and headed after Sherlock.

"Max, get back here right now!" John shouted.

She turned around to glare at him. "I'm fine!" she snapped.

John looked at her in exasperation. "You could be walking into a minefield!" he retorted.

Max crossed her arms. "You're being ridiculous," she stated.

He scoffed. "So are you!" he exclaimed.

"John, stop," Sherlock interrupted. "Max, only step where I step. Understood?"

Max nodded. "Yeah," she agreed.

"Sherlock-" John started, but he sighed when he accepted that he wouldn't be able to change either of their minds.

The two of them walked slowly across to the middle of the room, miraculously not setting off any bombs. Sherlock leaned forward so that he could examine the sneakers, gesturing Max next to him. "A pair of trainers," Sherlock grumbled, quiet enough that only she could hear. "Good condition but well-worn, British-made, twenty years old-"

"Don't forget the skin," Max commented. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "There's traces of skin all around the laces and stuff." Sherlock followed her gaze and nodded, even though the information didn't seem to improve his mood.

And then something rang.

Max flinched, and Sherlock pushed her behind him even as she was trying to pull him away from the shoes; the end result was both of them falling to the floor with a loud thud, Sherlock over Max. "OOF!" Max exclaimed. "Sherlock, what the-"

Then she realized that the ringing was coming from the phone.

Sherlock got to his feet and pulled the pink phone out of his jacket pocket to see who was calling. Max stood too and looked over his shoulder at the screen.

 _NUMBER BLOCKED._

The two of them shared a look, then Sherlock shrugged and answered the phone, putting it on speaker. "Hello?" he asked.

" _H-hello... sexy_ ," a female voice sobbed.

Max raised an eyebrow, and a glance at John and Lestrade told her that they were just as confused as she was. "Who's this?" Sherlock asked.

The woman on the other side of the phone took a deep breath before speaking. " _I've... sent you... a little puzzle... just to say hi_ ," she continued shakily.

"Who's talking?" Sherlock demanded. "Why are you crying?"

It sounded like the woman was crying now, and her words came out choppy. " _I-I'm not crying_ ," she answered. " _I'm typing... and this... stupid... bitch... is reading it out_."

Max's eyes widened in horror. "Oh my God," she whispered. "She's being forced to do this- she's a captive."

But Sherlock didn't seem to have heard what she just said; rather, he was staring out at nothing, his expression miles away. "The curtain rises," he breathed.

John frowned. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock blinked, suddenly brought back to the present. "Nothing," he answered.

John scowled. "No, what did you mean?" he said.

Sherlock frowned. "I've been expecting this for some time," he replied.

"That really doesn't explain anything," Max told him flatly.

The woman on the phone spoke before they could continue the conversation. " _Twelve hours to solve... my puzzle, Sherlock,_ " she said. " _Or I'm going... to be... so naughty."_ She sobbed again in despair, and without warning the line went dead.

They were silent for a second as they tried to make sense of what had just happened, and then...

"Bloody hell," Lestrade declared, accurately summarizing the situation.


	14. At The Lab

_Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock... or I'm going to be so naughty..._

The words from the haunting phone call still echoed in Max's mind fifteen minutes later as she and Sherlock climbed out of the cab. They only had twelve hours to figure out what the sneakers meant. Twelve hours...

After the phone call, Lestrade and John had hurried off to Scotland Yard to report the case, while Sherlock and Max headed to St Bartholomew's Hospital with the sneakers. For the record, it had been a very strange experience to ride in a cab next to a random pair of shoes.

Max found it strange that she wasn't more worried about the situation; a woman's life was on the line, yet she was more disturbed about finding a random pair of shoes in an abandoned flat. Considering how she had reacted when Soo Lin had been killed, she would have thought that she would be freaking out right about now.

Maybe it was because she trusted Sherlock to save that woman.

Currently, said detective strode through the doors of the hospital, his coat flaring out behind him and the sneakers in his hands. Max hurried after him, half-jogging to keep up with his fast pace. She didn't know where they were going, but Sherlock seemed to have a destination in mind as he navigated through the winding hallways.

Eventually they reached what appeared to be the lab area.

"Sherlock!" someone exclaimed. Max turned around to see a woman in a lab coat running up to them. She seemed to be about the same age as Max, with long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and a smile on her face... which was an extremely different reaction than most people had when Sherlock walked into the room.

The smile slid from her face when she saw Max standing there, replaced by one of confusion. "Oh, hello," she said.

Max gave her a small smile, equally as startled. "Hi," she replied.

Sherlock barely glanced at either of them, apparently not noticing the awkward atmosphere- but that was to be expected, after all. "Max, this is Molly," he said. "Molly, Max. C'mon, Max, we need to run some tests." Without another word, he headed off towards the lab with the sneakers.

The two girls stared at each other for a few seconds, still trying to make sense of each other's presence, then Max laughed awkwardly. "Sorry about that," she told her. She held out her hand. "I'm Max."

Molly shook the offered hand. "It's fine, I'm used to it by now," she replied kindly. "I'm Molly."

Neither of them spoke for a bit, but then Max cleared her throat awkwardly. "So, err... does he come here a lot?" Max asked. "Sherlock, I mean."

Molly smiled a bit at the thought. "Oh, a lot," she answered. She glanced through the glass on the door to look in the lab, where Sherlock was already beginning his examination of the sneakers. "I wonder what he's doing this time."

Max followed her gaze to Sherlock, who was still oblivious to the fact that she hadn't followed him into the lab. "We need to figure out what those shoes mean in twelve hours or else someone's going to die," she explained.

To Max's surprise, Molly didn't freak out.

"So you work with him, then?" was all she said.

She seemed nice.

000

A few hours later, they were still at the lab.

Lunchtime had long since gone and past, but Sherlock showed no sign of stopping his analysis of the sneakers. Max, being the dutiful friend that she was, had stayed with him.

She probably would have starved to death if John hadn't come with snacks.

"Thank you thank you _thank you!_ " Max exclaimed, pouncing on him and grabbing a bag of chips.

John blinked in surprise, apparently confused as to why she was so hungry. "What...?" he trailed off.

"We haven't had lunch," Sherlock answered, barely looking up from the microscope, where he was studying a piece of dried mud from the soles of the sneakers.

John looked at him in annoyance. "Why- never mind," he said.

Max just sat there happily, eating the chips.

"Scotland Yard knows about the situation," John told them. He looked around the lab, taking in the various tools and machines scattered around the room, as well as the table in the middle that Sherlock and Max were seated at. "So, who d'you suppose it was?"

Sherlock's phone suddenly beeped, but he didn't pay any attention to it. "Hmm?" he asked John, not even looking up at him.

John blinked. "The woman on the phone, the crying woman," he said, as if that was obvious.

Sherlock shrugged. "Oh, she doesn't matter," he answered. "She's just a hostage; no lead there."

John shot him a look. "For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads!" he exclaimed.

Max sighed. "John-" she started.

"You're not going to be much use to her," Sherlock told John.

Max glared at him. "Sherlock-" she attempted in the same tone.

"Are- are they _trying_ to trace it, to trace the call?" John interrupted.

Max groaned. "Oh my God," she muttered. "Can I finish a sentence?"

"The bomber's too smart for that," Sherlock answered, completely ignoring her.

Suddenly Sherlock's phone beeped again, and Sherlock scowled. "Pass me my phone," he requested.

John glanced around the table, but there wasn't any sign of the phone. "Where is it?" he asked.

Sherlock still didn't look up. "Jacket," he answered.

His statement was met with silence as John glared at him and Max looked at him in disbelief. "You're wearing your jacket," Max stated.

"I know," Sherlock said.

Max and John shared a look, silently arguing over who was going to do it. _You're sitting right next to him,_ John's eyes said.

There was nothing that Max could say to that, so she sighed and reached around Sherlock to get to his pocket. "Careful-" he started, but he suddenly fell silent when her arm brushed against his. Max hesitated, suddenly aware of the proximity of his body to hers; but then she shook it off and slipped the phone out of his pocket, returning to her original position.

"It's from Mycroft," she reported. She glanced at the message.

 _RE: BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS_

 _Any progress on Andrew West's death?_

 _Mycroft_

Sherlock grimaced. "Delete it," he told her.

"Delete it?" John echoed in disbelief.

Still, Sherlock didn't turn his gaze away from the microscope. "Missile plans are out of the country now," he explained. "Nothing we can do about it."

Max frowned as she scrolled through the previous texts. "Well, Mycroft still seems to think that it's important, considering he texted you eight times," she commented.

That finally caused Sherlock to look up, his expression thoroughly annoyed. "If it's so important, then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?" he challenged.

John blinked, just as confused as Max was. "His what?" he repeated.

Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft never texts if he can talk," he explained. "Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?"

With that, he turned back to the microscope.

Max put his phone down on the table as John shot Sherlock an irritated look. "Try and remember there's a woman here who might die," he told him.

The consulting detective looked up again, his expression mirroring John's. "What for?" he asked. "The hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by _their_ bedside and-"

" _Sherlock,_ " Max interrupted.

He stopped talking and glanced at her. The expression on her face seemed to tell him all that he needed to know; sighing, he turned back to the microscope...

... just as the computer beeped.

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed in delight. Max glanced over at the computer screen, which was flashing the words "SEARCH COMPLETE."

Well, Max wasn't exactly sure what had just happened, but it seemed to be good news.

The door to the lab suddenly swung open, and Max glanced up to see Molly walking in. "Any luck?" she asked.

Sherlock beamed happily. "Oh, yes!" he answered enthusiastically.

Molly headed over to look at the screen, but as she did the door opened again. A brown-haired man entered the room, in his early thirties and wearing slacks and a T-shirt. He stopped when he saw them gathered around the computer, then started slowly backing out timidly. "Oh, sorry, I didn't-" he started.

"Jim!" Molly exclaimed. "Hi! Come in, come in!"

Something in her tone made Sherlock look up and glance at her, making his deductions as usual, then turned back to the microscope. Meanwhile, Jim headed closer to them. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly told him. Jim's eyes widened in recognition. "And Max, and uh..." She glanced at John with a blank expression, then smiled apologetically. "Sorry."

"John Watson," John said. "Hi."

Jim nodded. "Hi," he replied, even though his eyes were on Sherlock with an admiring expression. "So, _you're_ Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

 _Oh, God..._ Max thought, trying to hide her annoyance. _We really don't need this right now..._

"Yeah, actually," she told him. "It's kinda important-"

He walked closer to look at the screen, bumping John out of the way. Max frowned at him, but Sherlock didn't even notice. "Jim works in I.T. upstairs," Molly explained. "That's how we met. Office romance." She and Jim laughed happily.

Max resisted the urge to gag.

Sherlock finally glanced up from the microscope, looking at Jim briefly. Max wasn't exactly sure what she expected him to say, but it certainly wasn't the word that came out of his mouth.

"Gay," he muttered.

Everyone stared at him in disbelief, and Molly's smile slid off of her face. "Sorry, what?" she asked.

Sherlock paused when he realized what he had just done, and for half a second he was silent. Then he looked up and gave Jim a forced smile. "Uh, hey," he lied.

Jim smiled back at him. "Hey," he replied, a dreamy quality to his voice.

He reached out to shake hands, but ended up knocking over a metal dish. John flinched, and instantly Jim bent down to pick it up. "Sorry, sorry!" he exclaimed, laughing awkwardly.

Sherlock flashed him an irritated look, but otherwise didn't say anything as Jim put the dish back on the table. Jim headed back to where Molly was standing. "Well, I'd better be off," he commented. "I'll see you at the Fox, about six-ish?"

Molly smiled happily. "Yeah," she agreed.

Jim placed a hand on her back. "Bye," he said.

"Bye," Molly breathed.

He turned back to look at Sherlock. "It was nice to see you," he told him.

An awkward silence fell over the room when Sherlock didn't reply. Max and John shared a look, then John cleared his throat. "Uh, you too," he said.

"Have fun at the Fox," Max added.

Jim blinked in surprise, apparently having forgotten about them. Then he turned and walked out of the room.

The second the door closed behind him, all hell broke loose.

Molly turned to Sherlock, her eyes flashing dangerously. "What d'you mean, gay?" she demanded. "We're together!"

Sherlock nodded. "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly," he said dryly. "You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

Max groaned. "He doesn't mean that," she told Molly.

"Yes I do," Sherlock added.

Molly frowned. "Two and a half," she corrected.

Sherlock glanced up at her again. "Nuh, three," he stated.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. " _Sherlock_..." he warned.

"He's _not_ gay!" Molly exclaimed. "Why d'you have to spoil... He's not!"

Sherlock scoffed. "With that level of personal grooming?" he challenged.

John gave him a look. "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" he demanded. " _I_ put product in my hair."

Sherlock shook his head. "You _wash_ your hair," he corrected. "There's a difference. No, no: tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear-"

"His underwear?!" Molly exclaimed.

"Why were you looking at his underwear?" Max added.

Sherlock sighed. "Visible above the waistline, _very_ visible _,_ " he explained. "Very particular brand."

Max gave him a look. "Alright, but that doesn't mean he's gay-" she started.

"Well, what about the _extremely_ suggestive fact that he just left his number under the dish here?" Sherlock interrupted, picking up the metal dish that Jim had knocked over. Sure enough, there was a piece of paper there with a phone number on it.

Well, there was no arguing with that.

Sherlock sighed and looked at Molly. "I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain," he told her.

Molly was silent for a few seconds as she stared at him, trying to wrap her mind around what had just happened. Then she turned and ran out of the room.

John sighed. "Charming," he said sarcastically. "Well done."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "Just saving her time," he replied. "Isn't that kinder?"

John looked at him in disbelief. " _Kind?"_ he repeated. "No, Sherlock, that wasn't kind."

Sherlock glanced at Max, silently asking her opinion. She just pointed at John. "What he said," she told him. "I'm gonna go make sure she's okay."

With that, she turned and walked out of the room.

The door slammed closed behind her, and when it did Sherlock looked at John in confusion. "I didn't say anything to upset _her_ ," he stated. "Did I?"

John sighed. "Well-" he started, but then he thought better of it and shook his head. "Never mind."

000

Max had long since figured out that when a girl was upset, she would head to the bathroom. And, once again, it proved to be true.

Molly had been standing by the sink with her face hidden behind her hands, but when she heard Max approaching she quickly stood up straighter and tried to wipe her tears away. "Hi, Max," she said.

Max gave her a small smile and leaned against the sink counter next to her. "You okay?" she asked.

It was a stupid question, but sometimes people needed to hear stupid questions like that. Sure enough, it made Molly's lips twitch up in a small smile. "I'm sorry," she sniffled. "I didn't mean to storm out like that, I just..."

Max nodded. "No, I get it," she reassured her. "He can be a lot sometimes."

Molly laughed. "That's putting it lightly," she said. The smile suddenly slid from her face, and she shook her head sadly. "I used to fancy him, y'know. I still do." She sniffled again. "I thought I was getting over it with Jim, but I'm not, really."

She burst out into another round of tears, and instead of saying anything Max just pulled her into a hug, letting her get it all out.

What did Molly see in Sherlock? There was no doubt that he was handsome, but once she looked past that there was... _Sherlock_ , with all his bizarre habits and brutally honest deductions, who kept heads in refrigerators and had the talent of annoying pretty much anyone he talked to.

But maybe that was why. The more she thought about it, Max had to admit that her time with Sherlock was refreshing. He was so different from everyone else that he kept her guessing, and something about that drew her in.

Maybe... just maybe... she could understand why Molly loved him.

000

Meanwhile, back in the lab, Sherlock pushed the sneakers across the table towards John. "Go on, then," he said.

John blinked. "Hmm?" he asked.

Sherlock gestured to the shoes. "You know what I do," he told him. "Off you go."

John looked at him in disbelief, sputtering angrily for a few seconds. "No," he finally stated.

But Sherlock didn't seem willing to take no for an answer, because he pushed the shoes closer. "Go on," he said.

John scoffed. "I'm not gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and disseminate-" he started.

"An outside eye, a second opinion," Sherlock interrupted. "It's very useful for me."

The expression on John's face didn't change. "Yeah, right!" he said sarcastically.

Sherlock looked at him seriously. " _Really,_ " he stated.

The two of them glared at each other, both of them refusing to back down. Then John nodded unhappily. "Fine," he grumbled. He cleared his throat and picked up one of the sneakers. "Well..."

000

A few minutes later, Max's phone suddenly beeped.

She turned away from Molly see that Sherlock had just texted her. Sighing, she opened her phone and read the message.

 _We're leaving. Meet us outside._

 _SH_

Max frowned and, after shooting an apologetic look at Molly, texted back.

 _We're leaving? Are you done?_

A few seconds passed as Sherlock typed his reply, and then her phone beeped again.

 _I found what I was looking for._

 _The shoes belonged to Carl Powers._

Max frowned in confusion.

 _Slow down. Carl Powers?_

Sherlock's response was quick and to the point, yet somehow it caused Max to shudder.

 _Where I began._

Molly gave her a small smile. "Duty calls?" she asked.

Max looked at her in concern. "Yeah," she answered. "Are you gonna be okay? I can stay-"

"No, no, go ahead," Molly said. "Have fun."

Max smiled at her thankfully, then turned and hurried out of the bathroom.


	15. Carl Powers

"1989, a young kid- champion swimmer- came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool. Tragic accident."

Sherlock held out his phone to Max and John, showing them a newspaper report on the topic. The three of them were currently squished in the back of a cab, with Max in the middle and the shoes on Sherlock's lap. She could feel Sherlock's leg against hers, his warmth that was so close, but she did her best to ignore it. "You wouldn't remember it," Sherlock continued. "Why would you?"

John raised an eyebrow. "But you remember," he stated.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he agreed.

Max took Sherlock's phone and skimmed the article. "What made it special?" she asked.

That was apparently a sore subject, because Sherlock grimaced. "Nobody thought it was remarkable, nobody except me," he answered. "I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers."

"Started young, didn't you?" John remarked dryly.

The thought of a child Sherlock attempting to solve crimes was so hilarious that Max had to stop herself from laughing out loud.

But Sherlock simply ignored both of them and kept on talking. "The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late," he explained. "But there was something wrong, something I couldn't get out of my head."

John frowned. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock scowled. "His shoes," he stated.

Max and John shared a look, both of them equally confused, then turned back to Sherlock. "What do you mean, his shoes?" Max wanted to know.

Sherlock leaned down and picked up the bag that they had put the sneakers in, placing it on his lap. "They weren't there," he answered. "I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important."

"I wonder why," Max muttered.

But Sherlock continued on as if he hadn't heard her. "He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes... until now," he told them.

They all looked down at the shoes on his lap.

"Oh God," Max said.

000

When they left the lab, there had been six hours left.

Now there was five.

Max frowned as she glanced at the clock, watching the second hand ticking down the time. She was currently curled up in John's armchair in Baker St, and John himself was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Sherlock himself had locked himself up into the kitchen and closed the doors behind him; Max didn't exactly know what was going on in there, but at least nothing had exploded yet.

The tension in the air was palpable.

John sighed and slid open the kitchen door, and Max saw that Sherlock was bent over the table, pouring over photographs and newspaper articles about Carl Powers' death. He made no sign that he noticed that John had opened the door.

"Can I help?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't reply, and John huffed irritably. "I want to help," he stated. "There's only five hours left."

Max's phone suddenly beeped, and she pulled it out of her pocket.

 _Any developments?_

 _Mycroft Holmes_

She glanced up at Sherlock and John; even though Sherlock still hadn't looked up from his work, John was looking at her expectantly. "Mycroft just texted me," she declared.

Nobody needed to ask what he wanted.

John frowned. "How does he know your number?" he asked.

She shrugged. "No clue," she answered.

"Must be a root canal," Sherlock mused.

Max looked at the detective, raising an eyebrow. Both she and John chose not to comment on the dental appointment theory. "Are you going to do anything about it?" she wanted to know, getting back on topic.

John nodded. "He did say national importance," he pointed out.

But Sherlock just rolled his eyes, clearly not amused. "How quaint," he commented.

John blinked. "What is?" he asked.

That seemed to finally be enough to draw Sherlock away from his work, because he looked up at the two of them. " _You_ are," he told John. "Queen and country."

John gave him a look. "You can't just ignore it," he stated.

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not ignoring it," he replied. "Putting my best man onto it right now."

Max and John shared a look. "Right," John said, sounding pleased with himself. "Good."

Then he blinked in confusion. "Uh... Who's that?"

000

Four hours left.

John cleared his throat awkwardly as he sat in Mycroft's office, dressed in a suit and tie. The large room around him was extravagant, filled with ornate furniture and organized to the smallest detail, and everything about it screamed of wealth. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

 _Putting my best man onto it right now..._ John scoffed.

He glanced at his watch to see how long he had been here- half an hour- when the door opened. John turned around to see Mycroft walking into the office, reading a report. "John," Mycroft greeted. "How nice. I was hoping you wouldn't be long."

Deciding to be polite, John stood as Mycroft walked towards his desk, and Mycroft glanced up briefly. "No Max?" he asked.

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, Sherlock wanted her to stay with him," he explained. "To help him... err... investigate."

An expression of surprise flitted across Mycroft's face for a second: the most emotion John had ever seen him show. But then he had it under control, so quickly that John began to doubt that it had ever been there. "Hmm," Mycroft mused. "Interesting."

Before John could ask what was interesting- even though he had a feeling that he knew the answer- Mycroft sat down behind his desk. "How can I help you?" he asked, putting the report down.

John sat too, trying not to feel self-conscious. "Um, well, I was wanting to... uh..." he trailed off, then shook his head to clear it. "Your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Did he?" he asked.

John smiled nervously. "Yes," he answered. "He's... er... investigating away."

The lie fell flat even to his ears.

"Um, I just wonder what else you can tell me about the dead man," John said.

Mycroft looked at him curiously, then leaned back in his seat. "Twenty-seven, a clerk at Vauxhall Station- err, M16," he told him. "He was involved in the Bruce- Partington Program in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK, no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies... Last seen by his fiancee at 10:30 yesterday evening."

John nodded. "Right," he said. "He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train."

Mycroft grimaced. "No," he answered.

John blinked. "What?" he asked.

Mycroft sighed. "He had an Oyster card, but it hadn't been used," he explained. As he spoke, he rubbed his jaw, clearly uncomfortable.

Suddenly, John remembered Sherlock's words earlier, when speculating on Mycroft having a dental appointment. _Must be a root canal._ He scowled when he realized that Sherlock had been right... as usual.

He grimaced and turned his mind back to the on the case at hand. "Must have bought a ticket," he guessed.

Mycroft shook his head. "There was no ticket on the body," he replied.

John blinked. "Then..." he trailed off.

"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?" Mycroft finished. "That is the question- one that I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?"

John cleared his throat awkwardly. "He- he's fine, yes," he answered. "Oh, and- and it's going very well. It's... um... y'know... he's completely focused on it."

He gave Mycroft a very unconvincing smile.

000

Meanwhile, Max sat across the table from Sherlock, who was still in the same spot that he had been in when John left. The detective had long since given up on studying the old newspapers; now he had returned to examining the sneakers, trying to find any clues that he had missed the first time.

She kept quiet as she watched him work, knowing better than to disrupt his thought process. Besides, he seemed so engrossed in his work that she doubted he would even hear her if she said anything.

Sighing, she glanced at the clock. They were rapidly approaching the three hour mark, and it didn't seem like they had made any progress since they had returned from the lab.

Max turned to look at Sherlock, who was scowling at something under his microscope. He had been working for the past nine hours, and he hadn't taken a break yet. Even though she knew that he was under the impression that he could continue on like this- and she had no doubt that he could- it wasn't good for him. He would be no help to the hostage if he worked himself to exhaustion.

Hmm...

Sherlock looked up in surprise as someone placed a cup of tea on the table next to him. Max was standing there, her arms crossed as she looked down at him. "I know you think digestion slows you down, but you need to at least drink something," she stated. With that, she turned and headed towards the living room.

"... Thank you," Sherlock said.

Max glanced back into the kitchen and saw Sherlock looking at her. She blinked in surprise, then gave him a small smile. "No problem," she replied. Sherlock nodded, and she continued on her way to the living room.

000

A few minutes later, the door to the flat swung open, and Max saw Mrs. Hudson walking in with a tray holding two mugs. The landlady seemed rather surprised to see that Sherlock already had tea, and she glanced at Max, who was currently laying down on the couch with a book. Max smiled at Mrs. Hudson, and the landlady looked back and forth from Max to Sherlock to the cup of tea, her eyes bright as she made the obvious connection.

"Poison," Sherlock declared.

Mrs. Hudson blinked in confusion, and Max looked up at him when she realized what he was saying. "What are you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Sherlock slammed his hand down on the table. "Clostridium botulinum!" he exclaimed. Mrs. Hudson gave him a look, then turned and walked out of the flat, obviously not wanting to get involved.

Max stood up and walked over so that she was standing by Sherlock, looking over his shoulder. He was studying something through the microscope; even though it didn't look like anything to Max, it clearly had some importance to Sherlock.

The door to the flat opened again, and Max looked up to see John walking in, returning from his meeting with Mycroft. "It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" Sherlock continued, not paying any mind to John's arrival.

John blinked. "Sorry, what?" he asked.

Sherlock shot him a look. "Carl Powers!" he reminded him.

John's eyes widened. "Oh, wait, are you saying he was murdered?" he realized.

His eyes bright with excitement, Sherlock walked over to where he had hung up the laces from the sneakers. "Remember the shoelaces?" he said, examining the laces a second time. "The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyzes the muscles, and he drowns."

Max frowned. "Why didn't anybody hear about this before?" she asked.

John nodded. "The autopsy would have picked it up," he agreed.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's virtually undetectable," he explained. "Nobody would have been looking for it... But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet. That's why they had to go."

He headed back to the other side of the table, where his laptop was open. Max glanced over his shoulder to see that the screen displayed the forum of his website, The Science of Deduction. He typed into the message box, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

 _FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978- 1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply to 221b Baker St._

John frowned. "So how do we let the bomber know?" he asked.

Sherlock straightened and looked at the two of them. "Get his attention, stop the clock," he answered.

Max glanced at the sneakers, which were on the table next to them. "But how did our bomber get the shoes in the first place?" she wanted to know.

Sherlock grimaced. "He must be out killer," he told her.

Suddenly the pink phone rang, and Sherlock hurried to answer the call. He put the phone on speaker, and all three of them could hear the woman breathing shakily, trying to control her sobs.

" _Well done, you_ ," she stuttered, reading another message. " _Come and get me._ "

Sherlock and Max shared a look of relief, and then he turned back to the phone. "Where are you?" he demanded. "Tell us where you are."

A few minutes later, Lestrade had been called, and a bomb disposal team had been dispatched to pick up the woman. But nobody at Baker St cared; they were all fast asleep after a long day of work.

000

"She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house."

It was next morning, and Max, Sherlock, and John were currently in Lestrade's office, discussing the case from yesterday. Lestrade was sitting behind his desk, and Max and John were seated across from him, but Sherlock was currently standing at the window which looked into the main office, staring out at the distance and obviously deep in thought.

Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly. "Told her to phone you," he continued. He reached out and put a pager on the desk in front of him. "She had to read it out from this pager-"

"- and if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off," Sherlock finished.

John frowned as he picked up the pager. "Or if you hadn't solved the case," he added.

Sherlock sighed wistfully. "Oh, _elegant,"_ he muttered.

Max glared at him in a silent warning. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"But what was the point?" Lestrade asked, bringing them back to the matter at hand. "Why would anyone do this?"

Even though Max thought that it was a legitimate question, Sherlock looked at Lestrade as if the answer was obvious. "Oh, I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored," he said, sounding genuinely confused.

Max was about to protest that blowing up a street wasn't what normal people did when they were bored- or shooting the wall, for that matter- but before she could say anything, the pink phone rang again.

Everyone looked sharply at Sherlock, who answered it nonchalantly.

" _You have one new message,"_ the voice alert said.

Max scowled. "Just what we need," she grumbled.

There was a beep that signalled the beginning of the message, then the Greenwich pips again. Unlike the previous time, there were three beeps, followed by one long one.

"Four pips," John stated.

Max frowned. "Last time it was five," she pointed out.

Sherlock nodded. "First test passed, it would seem," he mused. "Here's the second."

He held out the phone to them, and Max leaned forward to see a picture of a car, with its driver side door open and the license plate clearly visible. "It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock remarked.

Lestrade nodded. "I'll see if it's been reported," he told them. He picked up his desk phone, and in a matter of seconds he was completely engrossed in his conversation with whoever was on the other end of the line.

"Freak, it's for you."

The other three turned to see Sergeant Donovan sticking her head into the office, a phone in her hand. Max frowned at her and was about to say something in Sherlock's defense, but before she could say anything, Sherlock reached out and took the phone. Donovan sneered at Sherlock, then turned and left the room.

Max frowned at Sherlock. "You really shouldn't let her keep talking to you like that," she said.

Instead of replying, Sherlock stepped out of the room to answer the call. He closed the door behind him, but he could still see Max and John through the glass wall of the office. "Hello?" he asked into the phone.

" _It's okay if you've gone to the police_ ," a young man said. His voice shook, and he was obviously terrified of something.

The tone in his voice reminded Sherlock of the hostage from yesterday.

Sherlock scowled. "Who is this?" he demanded. "Is this you again?"

But the young man acted as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. " _But don't rely on them_ ," he continued. " _Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him._ " Sherlock tensed, knowing for sure now that this was the bomber.

From where she was sitting inside the office, Max could see Sherlock frown in alarm, obviously worried by whatever he had just learned from the phone call. She watched him in concern, and he glanced into the office; their gazes met for one electric moment, but then he turned away.

" _Carl laughed at me,_ " the man continued on the phone. " _So I stopped him laughing._ "

Max nudged John; he looked up in confusion, but then she gestured towards Sherlock. John frowned and headed out of the office to see what was wrong, and Max followed.

Sherlock was too focused on the phone call to notice the two of them there, and he didn't say anything when they joined him. "And you've stolen another voice, I presume," Sherlock said.

" _This is about you and me,_ " the man replied.

Sherlock scowled. "Who _are_ you?" he demanded. He was suddenly aware of some buzzing noise coming from the other side of the line. "What's that noise?"

The man sniffled, clearly trying to keep himself under control. " _The sounds of life, Sherlock_ ," he answered. " _But don't worry... I can soon fix that._ "

Max's eyes widened. "He has to be in London," she realized. "They're going to set off a bomb in the middle of London."

" _You solved my last puzzle in nine hours,_ " the man continued. " _This time you have eight."_

Suddenly someone cleared their throat from behind them. John flinched in surprise, and Max yelped; but then they realized that it was just Lestrade, and they relaxed. "We've found it," he told them.

By the time they turned back to the phone, the line had already gone dead.


	16. Two Faces

"The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford," Lestrade told them.

A few minutes had passed since they had received the second phone call in Lestrade's office, and Max and the others were currently in the middle of an open space next to a small river. They were walking towards the abandoned car that was in the photograph, watching as a team of forensics officers worked on it. Lestrade was currently flipping through the notes that he had gathered on the case and reading them off to everyone.

"Banker of some kind, a city boy," Lestrade continued. "Paid in cash. Told his wife he was going away on a business trip, but he never arrived."

By that point they had reached the car, and Sherlock and Lestrade started examining the car alongside the forensics officers. Max hung back with John and Sergeant Donovan, all three of them watching as Sherlock and Lestrade worked.

"You're still hanging around him," Donovan commented.

John cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly wishing that he was anywhere else right now. "Yeah, well..." he trailed off.

Donovan shrugged. "Opposites attract, I suppose," she mused.

John blinked in surprise. "No, we're not-" he attempted.

"You should get yourself a hobby," Donovan continued. "Stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer." She glanced at Max. "What's your issue?"

Max raised an eyebrow, doing her best to ignore the other woman's tone. "What do you mean?" she asked.

Donovan gestured to Sherlock. "Why are you hanging around with the freak?" she wanted to know. "You don't have anything better to do?"

Max scowled at her. "I work at the Bibliotheque offices, thank you very much," she snapped. "And my reasons for being here are my own."

For a moment they shared a look, neither of them willing to back down. Then Donovan shook her head, breaking the staring contest. "You're an independent woman, Max," she told her. "You don't need him. Might as well walk away now and save yourself the pain."

Wait... _what?_

"Max," Sherlock called. She turned towards the car and saw that Sherlock was looking at her, clearly waiting for her to join him. She glanced back at Donovan, who was watching her carefully, then headed off towards Sherlock.

 _Might as well walk away now and save yourself the pain..._

Sherlock nodded to the car as Max approached. "What do you see?" he asked.

Max frowned as she glanced at the car. "Uh..." she trailed off. "Well, there's blood on the island between the front seats. A lot. Uh... no body."

"Not yet," Donovan added from behind them.

Max glanced at her in irritation, then turned back to the car. "Do we know whose blood it is?" she asked.

Lestrade nodded, and Sherlock looked at her proudly. "The DNA checks out," Lestrade told her.

Sherlock gestured to the blood. "Get a sample sent to the lab," he ordered. Lestrade nodded and headed off to do as he said, but Donovan lingered behind, eyeing them as if she thought they would blow up the car. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes and walked off.

And now it was just the three of them.

As soon as Donovan was far enough away, Sherlock leaned forward and opened the glove compartment and started poking around. He straightened up a few seconds later, brandishing a business card and smirking at Max. _See?_ he seemed to be saying _. Look at me. I know what I'm doing._ She just rolled her eyes.

John looked from Max to Sherlock and back again, not believing his eyes. _Oh my God,_ he thought incredulously. _Is he actually flirting with her? I think he's actually flirting with her._

Sherlock, meanwhile, turned away from the car and headed back to the road, where a woman was talking to one of Lestrade's police officers, clearly on the verge of tears. Max and John shared a look, then hurried after him. "This is not gonna be good," she muttered.

"Mrs. Monkford?" Sherlock asked as they approached her.

The woman turned to them sadly. "Yes," she acknowledged. "Sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen."

John shook his head. "No, we're not from the police, we're-" he started.

Without giving him a chance to finish, Sherlock stepped forward and held out his hand to her, suddenly appearing distraught. "Sherlock Holmes," he interrupted. "Very old friend of your husband's. We, um..." He sniffed, fighting back tears. "We grew up together."

 _Oh God,_ Max thought.

Mrs. Monkford frowned in confusion as she shook Sherlock's hand. "I'm sorry, who?" she asked. "I don't think he ever mentioned you."

Sherlock looked at her, clearly startled. "Oh, he _must_ have done," he insisted. "This is... this is horrible, isn't it?"

"Uh, Sherlock-" Max started.

But Sherlock continued speaking as if she hadn't said anything. "I mean, I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian, not a care in the world." He smiled tearfully at her, pretending to reminisce on the memories that he didn't have.

Whatever reaction Max had been expecting, it wasn't the annoyed scowl that Mrs. Monkford gave Sherlock. "Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months," she told him. " _Who_ are you?"

Sherlock sniffled, and by this point he had tears running down his face. Behind him, Max was staring at him like he had gone insane. "Really strange that he hired a car," Sherlock continued on, pointedly ignoring Mrs. Monkford's question. "Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"

Mrs. Monkford blinked in surprise, clearly taken off guard. "No, it isn't," she stated. "He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."

Sherlock chuckled. "Oh, well, that was Ian!" he remarked. "That was Ian all over!"

By this point Mrs. Monkford was clearly about to call one of the cops over to arrest Sherlock- not that Max blamed her at all, considering how this was going. "No, it wasn't," she said.

Instantly, Sherlock dropped his fake persona, his eyes filled with that familiar spark that he got when he was onto something. "Wasn't it?" he asked. "Interesting." With that, he turned and walked off.

Max and John shared a confused look, both of them trying to comprehend what had just happened. "Uh... sorry about that," Max said. "He's just... uh... yeah." Then they both turned and hurried off after Sherlock.

"Who was I just talking to?" Max heard Mrs. Monkford ask someone.

It didn't take them long to catch up to Sherlock, who was ducking under the tape around the crime scene. "Why did you lie to her?" John asked.

Sherlock took off his gloves and wiped the tears from his eyes, but besides that he showed no sign of his earlier distraught. "People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you," he explained. "Past tense, did you notice?"

Max's eyes widened. "Oh, I get it," she realized. "When you started talking about her husband in past tense she did too."

He nodded. "Right," he agreed. "Bit premature- they've only just found the car."

John raised an eyebrow. "You think she murdered her husband?" he asked.

Sherlock grimaced. "Definitely not," he answered. "That's not a mistake a murderer would make."

John nodded. "I see," he said. Max raised an eyebrow at him. "No, I don't. What am I seeing?"

They walked past Donovan, who gave Max a pointed look. Once again, Max heard her words in her head. _Might as well walk away now and save yourself the pain..._ She shook her head to clear it and turned away, focusing her attention back on Sherlock and John.

"Where now?" John asked.

Sherlock pulled out the business card that he had taken from the glove compartment, holding it out to John. "Janus Cars," he answered.

000

"Can't see how I can help you gentlemen."

Max cleared her throat pointedly.

"...And lady."

She, Sherlock, and John were currently in the office of Janus Cars, the car hire company that Ian Monkford had gotten his car from. Sherlock was standing by the door and looking out at the forecourt filled with cars, and Max and John were sitting at the other side of the desk to the owner, who had introduced himself as Mr. Ewert.

John frowned. "Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday," he stated.

Ewert nodded. "Yeah, lovely motor," he agreed. "Mazda RX-8." He chuckled. "Wouldn't mind one of them myself!"

Sherlock walked over to the other side of the desk so that he was standing beside Ewert, then pointed at one of the cars in the forecourt. "Is that one?" he asked.

Ewert turned his head to look at where Sherlock was pointing, but the detective was no longer looking in that direction; instead, his attention was on Ewert's neck.

Max's eyes widened in horror. _Oh my God, what's he doing?_ she thought.

"No, they're all Jags," Ewert told him. "Yeah, I can see you're not a car man, eh?"

He chuckled and turned back to look at Sherlock, who by this point was looking straight ahead as if everything was normal... which was clearly far from the truth. _What are you doing?_ Max mouthed to him. Sherlock gestured at her with his hand, silently telling her to roll with it; sighing, she nodded and didn't say anything.

"But, er, surely you can afford one- a Mazda, I mean?" Sherlock asked, turning his attention back to the matter at hand.

Ewert shrugged. "Yeah, it's a fair point," he admitted. "But you know how it is. It's like working in a sweetshop; once you start picking at the liquorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?"

Max snorted. "Oh, he _definitely_ knows how it is," she agreed.

It seemed like Sherlock was about to protest, but Max just raised an eyebrow, daring him to say anything. Sighing, Sherlock nodded.

John let out a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh disguised as a cough, and everyone turned to look at him. Instantly, he cleared his throat. "Uh, sorry," he said. "So. You didn't know Mr. Monkford?"

Ewert shook his head, scratching at his left arm. Even though Max didn't think anything of it, she saw Sherlock eyeing him carefully as if that had been the answer he needed. "No, he was just a client," Ewert answered as Sherlock walked back around to the other side of the desk. "Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod."

By that point Sherlock had reached the other side of the desk, and he stood next to Max's chair. "Nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?" he asked casually.

Ewert blinked in surprise, clearly not having expected that. "Eh?" he replied.

Sherlock looked at him innocently. "You've been away, haven't you?" he wanted to know.

Max glanced at Sherlock suspiciously, then turned back to Ewert. "You have a tan," she clarified.

Ewert gave her a small smile. "No, it's, er, sunbeds, I'm afraid," he told her. "Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though- bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock asked suddenly, completely interrupting the entire conversation.

Everyone stared at him like he had lost his mind. "... What?" Ewert asked.

"Why do you want to use the cigarette machine?" Max added.

Sherlock gave her a look. "To get a cigarette, clearly," he answered, as if that should have been obvious. He turned his attention back to Ewert. "I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change. I'm _gasping."_

Even though he looked slightly confused- Max was too- Ewert reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Um, well..." he trailed off. He opened the wallet and flipped through it, then looked up at Sherlock. "No, sorry."

Sherlock shrugged. "Oh well," be commented. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ewert. You've been _very_ helpful."

With that, he turned and headed out the door. Max smiled politely at a very bewildered Ewert, then headed after Sherlock, pulling John with her.

"Since when do you smoke?" Max demanded as soon as the office door closed behind them.

Sherlock gave her a look. "I don't," he stated. He patted his left arm. "Nicotine patches."

John frowned. "So what was that all about?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged as they started heading towards the exit. "I needed to look inside his wallet," he explained.

"... What?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked. "Mr. Ewert's a liar," he said.

000

A few minutes later Sherlock was sitting in St Bart's lab, examining the blood from the car. Max and John had left to bring back lunch, so he was the only one in the room.

He had a drop of blood in a petri dish, and he placed the dish gently on the desk in front of him. Without tearing his gaze from the dish, he reached out and grabbed the small dropper on the table next to him. He squeezed out a drop of the liquid into the dish and watched as the blood started fizzing.

Suddenly the pink phone started ringing, and Sherlock straightened up to look at it. _Caller ID: Blocked,_ the screen read.

He knew who it was.

"Hello?" Sherlock asked as he picked up the phone.

Even before anybody on the other line spoke Sherlock knew that it would be the same man who he had spoken to earlier. " _The clue's in the name_ ," the man said, sounding like he was holding back tears. " _Janus Cars_."

Sherlock scowled. "Why would you be giving me a clue?" he asked suspiciously.

 _"Why does anyone do anything?"_ the man replied cryptically. " _Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock."_

Sherlock glanced around the lab to make sure that nobody else was there, then leaned closer. "Then talk to me in your own voice," he said softly.

The man on the other side of the line hesitated, then took a shaky breath. _"Patience,"_ he said.

And he hung up.

Sherlock was quiet for a second as he thought over the conversation, analyzing it from all different angles. Then, without warning, the door to the lab was thrown open.

John held the door open, and Max walked in, holding a pizza box. "Pizza delivery!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. But then she saw the brooding expression on Sherlock's face, and she frowned in concern. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing," he replied "I-"

But then his attention was drawn back to the petri dish in front of him, and he eyed it carefully. He grinned and looked up at her, his eyes twinkling happily. "C'mon, we're leaving," he said. "Call Lestrade, tell him that we'll be at Scotland Yard in a few minutes."

Without waiting for a response, Sherlock stood up and headed out the door.

"... But we just got here!" Max protested.

000

"... Why do you have pizza?"

Max glared at Lestrade as she took another bite of her pizza slice, balancing the box in her other hand. "I'm eating it," she said, as if that was obvious.

Lestrade blinked. "Yeah, but- never mind," he replied. He sighed and shook his head. "Forget about it."

The two of them were in the police car pound, as well as Sherlock and John. There were countless cars all around them, but the only one that had any significance was the one right in front of them: Ian Monkford's car, which had been moved here after their examination of it earlier in the day.

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asked, changing the topic.

Lestrade shrugged. "How much?" he repeated. "About a pint."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not _about,_ " he said. " _Exactly_ a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's, but it's been frozen."

"Frozen?" Lestrade asked incredulously, as if he didn't believe what he had just heard.

Sherlock smirked, clearly pleased with himself. "There are clear signs," he told them. "I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the sheets."

John frowned. " _Who_ did?" he demanded.

Sherlock nodded to the car in front of them. "Janus Cars," he answered. "The clue's in the name: the god with two faces."

"Like Harvey Dent," Max commented through a mouthful of pizza.

Everyone started at her blankly.

"... From the comics?" she asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They provide a very special service," he continued, as if Max hadn't said anything. She huffed. "If you've got any kind of a problem- money troubles, bad marriage, whatever- Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble- financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat..."

John frowned. "So where is he?" he wanted to know.

"Colombia," Sherlock answered casually.

Lestrade's eyes widened. " _Colombia?_ " he repeated.

Sherlock nodded. "Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet," he explained. "Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm."

Lestrade frowned. "His arm?" he asked.

"Kept scratching it," Sherlock said. "Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance, and she splits it with Janus Cars."

John stared at him with a blank expression. " _Mrs. Monkford?_ " he demanded.

Sherlock nodded, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh, yes," he agreed. "She's in on it too. Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best."

Without giving Lestrade a chance to reply, Sherlock turned and started heading out of the car pound. "C'mon, John, we need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved," he said. "Max, are you coming?"

Max and John shared a look, then turned and walked after him. _See you later,_ Max mouthed to Lestrade, waving at him with her pizza.

"I am on _fire!_ " Sherlock exclaimed happily.

000

A few minutes later, the three of them had returned to 221B. Due to the explosion from earlier in the week, the heating couldn't be turned on, so they were currently bundled up in their coats at the dining table. Sherlock's laptop was open to his blog, and they were all eating the pizza.

 _Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia,_ Sherlock typed.

And he sent it.

Barely a second had passed before the pink phone rang, receiving a call from another blocked number. Sherlock answered it and switched on the speaker.

" _He says you can come and fetch me,_ " the young man sobbed. " _Help. Help me, please._ "

Max sighed in relief.

A quick phone call to Lestrade ensured that a bomb squad was sent to pick up the young man, and a few minutes later they had received confirmation that he was safe and the bomb was diffused.

Two down, three to go.


	17. Setting Boundaries

The next morning, Sherlock and John found themselves eating breakfast at a small diner.

Well, more like, John was eating breakfast as Sherlock sat across from him, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. The pink phone was laying on the table next to him, and Sherlock scowled at it, waiting for it to ring.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "You realize we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?" he replied.

Neither of them spoke for a second as John ate another forkful of his breakfast, but then he looked up at Sherlock curiously. "Has it occurred to you-" he started.

"Probably," Sherlock interrupted.

John glared at him. "No- has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you?" he asked. "The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes... it's all meant for you."

Sherlock smiled grimly. "Yes, I know," he answered.

The words alarmed John more than anything he had heard before. He glanced around the diner to make sure that nobody was listening to them, then leaned closer to Sherlock. "Is it him, then?" he whispered. "Moriarty?"

Sherlock was silent for a second as he thought over it, but then he nodded. "Perhaps," he replied.

They had first heard the name Moriarty back in their first case together, A Study in Pink; even though the serial-killer cabby had been the one poisoning innocent people, he had been working under a man named Moriarty. Sherlock and John had been expecting something like this ever since that night, but John for one hadn't thought that it would happen like this... or so soon.

"Where's Max?" Sherlock asked, apparently just realizing that she wasn't there with them.

John looked at him in exasperation. "It's Monday, Sherlock," he said. "She's at work."

Sherlock blinked, just as confused as he would have been if John said that he came from the moon. "But she works with _us,_ " he stated.

Wait... was Sherlock _pouting?_

John sighed. "Yes, she does, but she has a life outside of all of this," he explained. "She has her own friends, her own career... she can't be with us all of the time."

Sherlock frowned. "You are," he pointed out.

John glared at him. "Yes, but I don't have a _job_ ," he reminded him. It seemed like Sherlock was about to protest, but John shook his head. "Sherlock, she has her own life outside of us, one that she's worked really hard for, and that's good, and we should be happy for her. You can't expect her to just drop all of it and come when you need her-"

Suddenly the pink phone beeped a message alert, and John stopped mid-sentence. Sherlock sighed and reached for the phone, but it seemed to John that he wasn't as enthusiastic as he had been before.

000

Max was in the middle of organizing her desk when her cell phone rang.

She scowled and glanced at her phone, which was on the opposite side of the desk. There was no way that she could reach it and keep holding up the giant stack of papers that she was currently trying to balance. But maybe...

Sighing, she rolled her chair in that direction as far as she could while still keeping a hand on the papers. The phone was just out of reach- barely- and she decided to risk inching forward a bit more.

Her fingers closed around the phone for one glorious moment, but she lost her grip on it. The phone went tumbling towards the ground, and Max acted instinctively; she let go of the papers and lunged towards the phone.

She caught it.

But she fell off of the chair.

And the stack of papers toppled over.

"No no no no no-" Max started, but it was too late. All she could do was watch helplessly as the papers fell to the ground. A few loose pieces drifted slowly to the ground, spinning in lazy circles.

 _Oh, you've got to be kidding..._

She popped up to her feet quickly and saw that everyone around her was staring at her like she had grown a second head. "Sorry!" she exclaimed. They turned their attention back to their work, and Max finally answered her phone. "I swear, this had better be important-"

" _We got a new case,_ " Sherlock interrupted.

Max plopped down on the floor and started gathering the papers together, mentally grumbling about how long this would take to sort through. "What's it about?" she asked, balancing her phone between her shoulder and her ear.

" _Turn on the TV,_ " he replied.

She stood up and glanced into Simmons's office, where she could catch a glimpse of the TV. Even though she couldn't hear what the newsreader was saying, she could read the headline at the bottom of the screen: _Make-over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48._

Max blinked. "Oh," she said. "Connie Prince, huh?"

Sherlock grunted his agreement. " _We've just arrived at the morgue to study her body,_ " he told her. _"We have twelve hours this time; the hostage is a deaf lady_."

The information barely fazed her, and she hated that this was her new normal, that she had gotten used to the idea of some mystery man taking people hostage and threatening to blow them up.

" _Is that Max?"_ she heard Lestrade asking from the other side of the line. " _Tell her I say hi._ "

Sherlock sighed wearily. " _Lestrade says hi,_ " he told her.

Max laughed. "Tell him I say hi back," she replied.

Even though she couldn't see him, she could imagine Sherlock scowling in irritation. " _I'm not your mail carrier-"_ he started.

" _Sherlock, get off your phone; we're working,_ " John said. " _Hi, Max._ "

Max grinned. "Hey, Johnny boy," she replied.

" _John, can I have a normal conversation without you butting in?"_ Sherlock complained.

" _Fine, fine, fine,"_ John replied. Even though he sounded grumpy, Max could hear the smile in his voice. " _We'll head in without you._ "

She could hear some shuffling as John and Lestrade headed into the morgue, leaving Sherlock alone with his phone. "So," Max commented. "Why are you calling? I thought you said you prefer to text."

 _"Maybe I wanted to hear your voice,_ " he replied.

Wait... _what?_

Before Max could figure out how to reply to that, she heard the door to Simmons's office open. _Uh oh._ "Uh, Sherlock, listen... Duty calls," she said. "I'll call you back later. Good luck!" Without giving him a chance to reply, she hung up and put her phone as far away as possible.

By the time Simmons walked by her desk, Max was organizing the mess of papers on the floor as if she hadn't just been on the phone. Simmons paused for a moment, taking in the mess, then continued on her way. Max sighed in relief.

Meanwhile, outside the morgue, Sherlock was staring at the phone in his hand with a blank expression. "... She hung up on me," he stated.

John stuck his head out of the morgue. "Hey, Sherlock, are you coming-" he started, but then he saw Sherlock's expression. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock shook his head to clear it, banishing any thoughts of Max from his mind and concentrating on the case. "Fine," he answered curtly. "Let's go."

000

Max decided to spend her lunch break at Baker St.

The first thing that she noticed when she walked into the flat was that the walls had once again been taken over by a variety of maps, photos, news articles, and other pieces of paper, as seemed to be tradition when Sherlock was on a case. She took a quick glance at it and saw that it mostly consisted of information about Carl Powers and Connie Prince, as well as a few papers concerning Janus Cars. Pieces of string attached certain exhibits.

Sherlock was the next thing that caught her eye. The detective was currently pacing back and forth in front of the sofa, scowling in irritation and muttering under his breath. His hair was a careless mess, and he was staring intently out at nothing. It didn't seem like he had noticed her there yet.

"Uh... hi there," Max said.

The sound of her voice made Sherlock look up sharply, and he scowled when he realized that she was there. "Max," he greeted.

She blinked in surprise, not having expected such a grumpy response. "Sherlock," she replied. Then she realized that Lestrade was standing in the corner of the room too, and she smiled at him. "Hey, Lestrade."

Lestrade smiled back, seeming relieved that she was there. "Hey, Max," he replied.

It seemed like he was going to say something else, but then Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?" he asked, interrupting their conversation.

Max shrugged. "I'm on my lunch break," she answered. "I decided to pop on over. Where's John, by the way?"

"Oh, I sent him to investigate the Connie Prince case," Sherlock said casually.

She raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?" she asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "He wanted to help," he explained. He gave her a look, seeming annoyed. "I would have preferred to have you on it as well."

Max sighed. "Sherlock, I have a _job_ ," she said. "I can't just-"

"No, no, it's fine," he interrupted, his tone making it clear that it wasn't fine. "I get it."

She looked at him in concern. "Sherlock-" she started.

"Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago," Sherlock declared, completely ignoring what she was saying. She shared an exasperated look with Lestrade, who just shrugged. "The bomber knew him, admitted that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, and the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent." He scowled. "What's he doing, working his way round the world? Showing off?"

Before he could continue, Max stood up and put a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Can I have a word real quick?" she asked. "Outside?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything she had pulled him out of the flat and into the stairwell. "What-" he started.

Max crossed her arms and glared up at him. "What's your problem?" she demanded.

He scowled at her. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied flippantly.

She scoffed. "Yeah, you're not fooling me with that," she said.

Neither of them spoke for a second, but in that silence something clicked for Max. "You're mad because I'm not working the case with you," she realized.

Sherlock crossed his arms, staring down at her stubbornly. "No, I'm not," he retorted. "What makes you think that? I can solve the case without you, so whether or not you're here is irrelevant-"

The pink phone suddenly rang, interrupting him. He reached to the phone instinctively, but he paused before he took the call, sharing a glance with Max. "I-" he attempted.

"No, it's fine," she said. "I have to get back to the office anyway."

She turned to leave but hesitated for a second, as if she might have been convinced to stay. But Sherlock said nothing, and she continued on her way.

000

About an hour later, Max was wondering if maybe- just maybe- it would have been better to stay with Sherlock.

She groaned and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes in exhaustion. No matter how much she tried to focus on her work, she couldn't stop her mind from wandering. The case, the mysterious bomber, her argument with Sherlock... She wanted to call him, to see how the case was going and to explain why she couldn't be there every minute of every day.

It was ridiculous for him to expect that of her, anyway. She hadn't done anything wrong, so she shouldn't feel bad about it... right?

Unbidden, Sherlock's words came back to her. _I can solve the case without you, so whether or not you're here is irrelevant._ Max had no doubt that it was true, but it stung regardless.

"Ms. Arthur, can I see you in my office for a moment?"

Max looked up to see Simmons standing by her desk, arms crossed and a stern expression on her face. Without waiting for a response, Simmons turned and strode off towards her office, clearly expecting Max to follow.

 _Uh oh..._

By the time Max reached the office, Simmons was already seated at her desk. "Close the door behind you," Simmons instructed.

Max did as she said, trying to hide how nervous she was feeling. This was the first time she had been in the office since her job interview, and she couldn't help but feel like she was in trouble. "Ms. Simmons-" she started.

"Take a seat, please," Simmons interrupted, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk. Max gulped and sat down in the chair. "Tea?"

Max shook her head. "It's fine, thank you," she replied.

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds as Simmons checked something on her computer, and Max shifted awkwardly, not sure if she should say anything. But then Simmons turned her attention away from the computer and looked Max straight in the eye. "Max," she said. "Are you alright?"

Max blinked, not having expected that. "What?" she asked. "I mean, uh, yeah. Why?"

Simmons gave her a concerned look. "You've been distracted all day," she answered. Max began to protest, but Simmons cut her off with a shake of her head. "You're allowed to have bad days, Max. I just want to make sure you're okay."

Max was silent for a second as she considered that. The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to talk to someone about everything that was going on, but...

"It's a long story," she finally said.

Simmons smiled. "I have time," she replied.

That was all it took for Max to start telling her everything about Sherlock and the case, about how he expected her to be there for him when she couldn't. Simmons didn't say anything the entire time, just listened intently as Max told her story.

"Your friend Sherlock," Simmons said when Max finally finished. "He seems to be a... unique person."

Max scoffed. "You can say that again," she grumbled.

Simmons smiled briefly. "He obviously cares about you," she told her. "It seems to me like he's only pushing you away because he misses you, and he's not sure how to deal with those emotions."

Max didn't reply for a second as she thought that over. It made sense, but...

"So what do I do?" she asked. "Should I apologize, or-"

Simmons shook her head. "You've done nothing wrong, Max," she reassured her. "You don't need to apologize. If he's truly your friend- which I believe he is- he'll come around."

Sherlock, come around? As if.

Maybe Max's doubt showed on her face, because Simmons gave her a small smile. "I went through this too, when I was your age," she said.

Max blinked in surprise. "You did?" she asked.

Simmons nodded, still smiling fondly at the memory. "She was everything I could have ever dreamed of, but my job was demanding, and when I realized that I couldn't have both... I decided that my career was more important," she explained. "So I let her go."

Max raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying that I should stop working with Sherlock if he's going to be like this?" she said doubtfully.

Simmons shook her head quickly. "Oh, goodness, no," she replied. "I still keep in touch with her, and I'm happy with where my career took me. But what I realize now is that you don't need to have one or the other, Max. You care about him, and you care about your job; if they're both important enough to you, then you'll find a middle ground, and if he cares enough about you, he'll help you do that in any way he can."

 _If they're both important enough to you, then you'll find a middle ground, and if he cares enough about you, he'll help you do that in any way he can.._.

Max smiled. "Thanks, Ms. Simmons," she said. "That... that made me feel a lot better, actually."

Simmons nodded. "Anything I can do to help," she replied. She smiled. "Now get back to work."

Max laughed. "Yes, ma'am," she agreed, and she headed back to her desk.

000

When Max arrived at 221B after work, she certainly hadn't expected to see Sherlock and John sitting there in misery, staring blankly into the fireplace.

"Uh... are you guys alright?" she asked.

John looked up at her, but Sherlock didn't even react to her voice. "We solved the case," he said. "The houseboy poisoned her through her botox injections. But the bomber killed the hostage anyway."

Max's eyes widened in horror. "What?!" she exclaimed. "Why-"

"She started to describe him," Sherlock answered, his voice sounding hollow. "She said his voice was soft."

Nobody spoke for a second, but then Sherlock stood up. "Max, can we talk?" he asked. "Privately?" John looked from Sherlock to Max in concern, but she nodded, and the two of them headed to the stairwell.

Sherlock closed the door behind them, and Max sighed. "Sherlock, I-" she started.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock interrupted.

Max blinked in surprise. "Uh... what?" she asked.

Sherlock grimaced, as if saying those two words were the hardest thing that he had ever done. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I... I shouldn't have been mad at you. Your career is important to you, and I get that. I can't expect you to be on every case with us. And I know I said that I can solve the cases without you- and it's true- but whether or not you're there is far from irrelevant."

She stared at him blankly, more than surprised that she hadn't even had to say anything. Then she gave him a small smile. "It's alright, Sherlock," she said. "And... thank you."

Now it was his turn to look at her in confusion. "For what?" he asked.

Max grinned at him, remembering Simmons's words. "For being a friend," she answered.

Without warning, Max pulled him into a hug, her arms wrapping tight around him. Sherlock tensed at first, not expecting that; but then he relaxed and hugged her back.

"I might not always be able to be there all the time, but if you ever need to talk something over, I'm just a call away," Max said. "You know that, right?"

Even though she couldn't see him, she could feel him smile.

"I know," he replied.


	18. Date Night

Max was at work the next day when she got a call from Raz, of all people.

" _Hey, Maxie!"_ Raz exclaimed when she answered the phone.

She pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation. _"Please_ don't call me that," she said. "What is it, Raz? Got in trouble for spray-painting another national monument or something?"

Raz scoffed. " _I'd be offended, but it would totally happen,"_ he replied. " _No, actually I'm calling because I have something for you."_

Max raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" she asked. "What's the occasion?"

 _"The Hickman Gallery is holding a fancy event tonight,"_ Raz told her. " _They rediscovered this painting or something, I don't know. Anyway, it's normally not my scene, but buddy of mine got me two tickets and I was wondering if you wanted to come. Err... with me. To the event._ "

She blinked in surprise. "Is this your way of asking me on a date?" she asked suspiciously.

Raz scoffed. " _As if,_ " he replied. " _No, I just figured you would appreciate it more than some other people I know."_ He paused awkwardly. " _Unless you want it to be? I mean, I'd be down-"_

Max grinned. "Text me the time, Raz," she said. "I'll be there."

" _Wait, so is that a yes, or-"_ Raz started.

But she hung up before he could finish, still grinning.

Max had been to the Hickman Gallery countless times as a child; as the largest contemporary art museum in London, the Hickman was a beacon for any artist or art lover in the city. She hadn't had a chance to visit ever since she had moved back, but she had been meaning to.

She most certainly hadn't expected her first time back to be with Raz.

They had had their share of differences ever since they had met at that art competition years ago, but Max respected him, and she liked to think that he respected her too. She had never exactly considered going on a date with him, but now that she was thinking about it, she was strangely unopposed to the thought. He was a decent guy who shared her appreciation for art, and besides, it wasn't like she was looking at anybody else right now.

Without meaning to, she remembered the expression on Sherlock's face after she had hugged him. She scoffed at the thought. Just because she enjoyed his presence didn't mean that she fancied him. Besides, he was Sherlock. Dating him would be complicated, to say the least.

Suddenly her phone rang again, and she glanced at the screen to see that- speak of the devil- it was Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock," she said as she answered the phone. "What-"

" _Did you hear about the lost Vermeer painting?"_ he interrupted.

She blinked in surprise. "Uh... no," she answered. "Why?"

" _The Hickman Gallery recently recovered a painting by Vermeer,_ " he explained. " _Worth thirty million pounds. It's a fake."_

Max pinched the bridge of her nose. "Okay, okay, Sherlock, slow down," she said. "Start from the beginning, please."

Even though she couldn't see him, Max could imagine Sherlock scowling. " _We got a new case from the bomber,_ " Sherlock said. " _There was a dead body: Alex Woodbridge, a security guard from the Hickman Gallery. He was murdered._ "

She blinked in surprise. "Murdered?" she repeated. "Why? Do you know who killed him?"

 _"The Golem,"_ Sherlock answered. " _One of the deadliest assassins in the world. Somebody wanted to keep Alex Woodbridge quiet, and the only possible reason would be-"_

Max nodded. "-if the Vermeer painting is a fake," she finished. "Makes sense. Why are you calling me, though?"

Sherlock sighed. " _I was hoping you would be able to shed some light on the situation, considering you enjoy art,"_ he told her.

She grimaced. "I do, but seventeenth-century Dutch painters aren't my specialty," she replied. "I can't help you."

" _What about Raz?"_ Sherlock asked.

Max scoffed. "If Raz knows any more than me about seventeenth-century Dutch paintings, I'd be extremely surprised," she answered dryly. She paused in thought. "I can ask him tonight, though." Sherlock didn't reply, and even through the phone she could sense his shock. "Sherlock?"

" _Why are you seeing him tonight?"_ he finally asked.

She shrugged. "Coincidentally, we're going to the Hickman Gallery together," she answered. "There's an event for the Vermeer painting and he had a spare ticket." Sherlock didn't reply, and she frowned in concern. "Sherlock? Are you still with me?"

Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly trying to organize his thoughts. " _Right. Yeah. Do some investigating while you're there, will you?"_ he said.

Max scowled. "Sherlock, I'm not going to investigate for you while I'm on a date-" she started. But he had already hung up. She groaned and threw her phone across the desk. " _UGH!"_

000

Back at Baker St, Sherlock was scowling at his phone, Max's words still echoing in his head. "She's going on a date," he stated.

Mrs. Hudson looked up in surprise from where she was putting the weekly groceries on the counter. "Who, Max?" she asked.

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "Who else?" he challenged.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Oh, I hope that it goes well," she remarked happily. "She deserves someone who can make her happy." Sherlock glared at her, and she crossed her arms sternly. "What do you expect, Sherlock? If you want her, you have to go after her!"

He looked at her in disbelief. "I don't- that's not-" he attempted, but she had already left the flat.

"I just don't think that he's good for her!" he shouted down the stairs.

Even though he couldn't see her, Sherlock could imagine Mrs. Hudson rolling her eyes. "Of course, dearie!" she called up.

Sherlock looked at the door in disbelief. "He's an unemployed artist who makes it a habit to spray-paint private property and run from the police!" he protested. "She could do better!"

Mrs. Hudson didn't reply.

Still grumbling under his breath, Sherlock turned his attention back to the case at hand, trying not to think of Max and Raz going to the Hickman Gallery together.

000

The rest of the day passed by without word from Sherlock or John, and about an hour before her date with Raz, Max was in her flat. She was standing in front of her closet, digging through it for something decent to wear, and her laptop was open on her bed, in the middle of a video call with one of her friends from college, Leah Tang.

"So, run me through this again," Leah said playfully. "You've only been back in London for a month now and you already have a job at _one of the biggest graphic design companies in the world_ , a date with a _totally sexy spray-paint artist_ , and you're friends with a _high-functioning sociopath_ who brings you along to solve _crimes?_ "

Max sighed. "Well, I wouldn't exactly call Raz _sexy_... but yeah, that pretty much sums it up," she admitted.

Leah grinned. "Dang, you go, girl!" she exclaimed. "Maybe I should move to London!"

Max laughed. "I'm sure there's plenty of drama in the States, Leah," she said. She turned around so that she could glance at the laptop. "How's everything back there? I miss you guys!"

Leah frowned. "I miss you too," she replied. She rolled her eyes. "You're not missing out on anything, though."

Max turned back to the closet and started looking through her clothes again. "How's grad school?" she asked.

Leah grinned. "Not bad, actually," she replied. She leaned closer to the computer and raised her eyebrows conspiratorially. "This guy in my molecular bio class is _totally_ hot."

Instantly, Max turned around to look at the computer screen again. "Wait, seriously?" she asked. "C'mon, give me details!"

Leah laughed. "As much as I'd love to..." she said. "You're the one going on a date tonight! Tell me about this Raz guy! How did you meet?!"

Max rolled her eyes. "Oh geeze," she grumbled. "That's a long story. Uh... well, I guess it started back in secondary school. We were in this art competition and I got second place- by one point, mind you! But anyway, Raz was first, and I guess we just kinda casually kept an eye on each other since then. I hadn't seen him for years until Sherlock needed to talk to a graffiti artist."

Leah grinned. "And you brought him to Raz because you wanted to see him?" she asked.

Max grimaced. "Oh, no way," she replied. "I was just trying to help Sherlock."

Leah raised an eyebrow. "Who you barely knew," she pointed out.

Max hesitated. "I... I knew enough," she told her. "We were at the bank the day before, talking with an old classmate of his, and..." She sighed. "I don't know, I can't explain it. He's different, Leah. He's different than everyone else, like he's on a whole other level than the rest of us. I think he's brilliant, but apparently people at his school made fun of him for it. I wanted to help." She laughed awkwardly. "Does that sound crazy?"

For once, Leah was serious as she looked at Max, deep in thought. "No it doesn't," she replied. "Not at all."

Neither of them spoke for a second, but then Max gave her a small smile. "You're thinking something," she said.

Leah nodded. "I'm thinking that you and Sherlock-" she started.

Max's phone alarm started ringing loudly, interrupting Leah. She glanced at her phone, and her eyes widened when she realized what time it was. "I need to go get ready," she told her. "I'll talk to you another time, though?"

Leah nodded. "Yeah, of course," she said. "Have fun!"

Max laughed. "I'll try," she replied. Leah ended the video call, and Max turned to look at the black dress that she had picked out. Leah's words echoed in her mind, and Max couldn't help but wonder what she had been trying to say.

000

" _NO!_ "

Sherlock slammed his fist on the ground angrily, and John watched helplessly as the Golem slipped out of the back door, leaving the two men alone in the planetarium with the dead body of Professor Cairns. The two men had spent the entire day working the case, and a combination of their two efforts led them to Professor Cairns, who had been in contact with the dead security guard. But the Golem had gotten to her first, and they hadn't been able to capture him.

They stood there in silence for a moment, catching their breath from the fight. Then Sherlock stood up, still slightly winded but with a determined glint in his eyes. "What now?" John asked him. "We've lost our lead."

Sherlock grimaced. "We'll have to find out why the painting is a fake ourselves," he answered. "We'll have to go to the Hickman... and fortunately for us, it's open tonight."

John blinked in confusion. "What?" he demanded. "Why? Sherlock?"

But Sherlock was already walking away, heading towards the exit. "Call Lestrade and tell him what happened here," he ordered. "But make it quick; we have an event to go to... and a date to crash."

000

"Wow, I missed this place."

Max looked at her surroundings with a broad smile on her face, taking in the familiar sights of the Hickman Gallery. Being back after so long was strange, almost like no time had passed since high school; but at the same time everything seemed smaller in a way, or maybe she had grown. Music played in the background as the guests wandered around, socializing and discussing the Vermeer painting. A handful of servers held trays of cocktails and appetizers, deftly weaving their way through the crowd.

Raz shrugged. "I can't say I ever liked the gallery, but the food is definitely worth it," he replied. A waiter walked by, and he grabbed an appetizer.

Max glanced over her shoulder to look at him. Unlike his normal combo of a sweatshirt and jeans, Raz was wearing a suit and tie, which was far fancier than anything she had ever seen him wear. If she didn't know him as well as she did, she wouldn't have realized that the man standing with her right now was the same one who she had spoken with a month ago, spray-painting one of the walls of the National Gallery.

"Like what you see?" Raz asked.

She laughed. "You wish," she teased.

Raz rolled his eyes. "Oh, I see how it is," he replied. "You just don't appreciate fine art."

Max scoffed. "If anyone here doesn't appreciate fine art, Raz, it's you," she joked.

He clutched his chest playfully, stumbling back in mock pain. "Oh, Max, you wound me!" he exclaimed dramatically. "How could you say such a thing?!" They both burst out laughing, causing the people around them to look at them strangely; but that just made them laugh even harder.

Eventually they composed themselves, and Max grinned at him. "Seriously, though, Raz, thanks for inviting me," she said.

Raz shrugged. "No problem," he replied. "It was nothing, really." Neither of them spoke for a moment, but then he nudged her playfully. "Hey, did you ever find that murderer?"

Max blinked in surprise, trying to figure out what he meant, but then she realized that he was talking about the case that John had dubbed the Blind Banker. "Oh, right!" she exclaimed. "Yeah, we got him. You'd never believe what-"

He frowned suddenly, looking at something over her shoulder. "Wait, is that your friend?" he asked.

"I'm telling you, the painting is a fake, and if you don't let us in to prove it, a bomb will go off and kill hundreds of people!" a familiar voice shouted, carrying over the casual chatter in the room.

Max turned around to see Sherlock and John standing by the doors of the Gallery, arguing with the security guard.

"... I'm going to kill him," she growled.

Sherlock looked up when she and Raz approached them. "There you are, Max!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Can you-"

"What the hell are you doing here?!" Max interrupted.

Sherlock scowled. "We need to see the painting," he replied.

"The better question is, why are you with _him?!_ " John demanded, gesturing to Raz.

Raz blinked innocently. "Me?" he asked.

John glared at him. "Yes, you!" he snapped.

Max crossed her arms. "That's none of your business, John!" she exclaimed. "Sherlock, you can't just randomly show up at an event and demand to be let in! Actually, on that topic, _what_ is it with you crashing dates?! First John at the circus, and now-"

The security guard sighed, pinching his nose in irritation. "Alright, listen up, folks," he interrupted. "I don't know how y'all know each other, but you two," he said as he gestured to Sherlock and John, "are going to have to leave. I can't let you in if you don't have a ticket, or my job's toast."

Sherlock scowled. "Oh, yes, and your affair would be over," he retorted. Everyone stared at him blankly, and he rolled his eyes impatiently. "Clearly she's only using you for access to the Gallery."

Max groaned. "Sherlock, please-" she attempted.

"You again?"

They all turned to see a stern-looking lady walking up to them, wearing an elegant black dress that probably cost more than Max's monthly rent. Max recognized her as Ms. Wenceslas, the owner of the Hickman Gallery. She clearly didn't seem pleased to see Sherlock... not that Max was necessarily happy with him, either.

Sherlock nodded to her. "Hello again," he replied nonchalantly.

Max blinked. "You two know each other?" she asked in surprise.

Sherlock shrugged. "I snuck in earlier today to look at the painting," he explained.

Max sighed. "Oh god..." she muttered.

Ms. Wenceslas glared at him. "I'm going to call the police if you don't leave right now," she said.

"Already present," someone replied. They all turned to see Lestrade walking up to them, displaying his badge. "Ms. Wenceslas, we're going to have to ask you to show us that Vermeer painting."

One look at his expression made it clear that he wasn't joking.

"This evening is _not_ going to plan," Max muttered.


	19. Supernova

A few minutes later, Max and the others found themselves standing in front of the rediscovered Vermeer painting. Faint sounds from the party echoed through the halls, but besides that the room was silent. The painting was the only piece on display in the entire room, making it seem larger than it actually was. Sherlock stood in front of the painting, glaring at it as if he could convince it to give him the answer, and Lestrade stood slightly behind him, watching him work. Ms. Wenceslas watched the two men warily, and Max stood across from her, in the perfect position to watch her. Raz hovered next to Max, clearly confused as to what was going on, and John stood next to him, glaring at him when he thought that nobody was looking. Nobody said a word.

"So... uh... what's going on here, exactly?" Raz asked.

Max sighed. "It's a long story," she answered.

Sherlock sighed and turned away from the painting, clearly frustrated. "Max," he said. "Do you see anything?"

She stepped forward and took Sherlock's place by the painting, examining the blend of colors and brush strokes that came together to make a night sky. "No," she replied. "It looks authentic. Vermeer uses pigments in a very specific way, and I recognize it here. If it's a fake, I can't tell."

Raz frowned. "Why do we think it's a fake?" he wanted to know.

Lestrade sighed. "Welcome to the club, mate," he grumbled.

John scowled at him. "I don't even know why you're here, Raz," he said.

Raz looked at him incredulously. "Why _I'm_ here?" he repeated. "Max and I are on a date! What are _you_ doing here?"

Sherlock shot both of them a murderous glare. "Can I have silence, please?" he demanded.

"Seconded," Max added.

John huffed. "Fine," he grumbled.

"Fine," Raz added.

Nobody spoke for a few seconds as Sherlock went back to examining the painting. "If it were authentic then the canvas would have degraded," Max offered.

Sherlock shook his head. "I thought about that already," he replied. He scowled. "It's a fake. It has to be."

Ms. Wenceslas crossed her arms in irritation. "That painting has been subjected to every test known to science," she insisted.

Sherlock scoffed. "Then it's a very good fake," he retorted. Without warning, he whirled around and glared at her. "You know about this, don't you? This is you, isn't it?"

Max gave him a look. "Don't jump to conclusions, Sherlock-" she started.

"But what else could explain-" he attempted.

Ms. Wenceslas sighed in irritation. "Inspector, my time is being wasted," she interrupted. "Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?"

Raz raised his hand hesitantly, as if he were in school. "Oh, we're not with them," he said. "Max and I, I mean."

Ms. Wenceslas glared at him. "I don't care, young man," she snapped.

He blinked in surprise. "... Okay then," he agreed.

"Can we calm down for a second?" Max requested.

John glared at her. "I'm calm," he replied. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm perfectly calm. See this face? I'm calm."

Max gave him a look. "No you're not," she said.

He sighed. "Alright, fine, I'm not calm," he admitted. _"Why are you going on a date with him?!"_

Raz blinked in surprise. "Me?" he asked.

John crossed his arms in irritation. "Yes!" he exclaimed.

Max groaned. "John, it's none of your business!" she protested.

"If anyone wants to know what I think, my opinion is that Max could do better," Sherlock interjected.

She looked at him in disbelief. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed.

Raz sighed. "Gee, thanks," he muttered.

"EVERYONE, SHUT IT!" Lestrade shouted.

They all fell silent, and Lestrade blinked in surprise, as if he hadn't expected that to work. "... Thank you," he said.

"Hmpf," Max grumbled.

Suddenly the pink phone rang, and Sherlock snatched it from his pocket. "The painting is a fake," he declared.

Silence.

Sherlock scowled. "It's a fake," he repeated. "That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed."

Still, no response.

He sighed impatiently. "Oh, c'mon," he complained. "Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it, I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed!"

The phone remained silent.

Max placed a hand on his shoulder. "Take a deep breath, Sherlock," she told him.

He closed his eyes and did as he said, then turned back to the phone, notably calmer than he had been before. "Okay, I'll prove it," he said. "Give me time. Will you give me time?"

This time there was a response, but when Max heard it she almost wished that the phone had remained silent.

 _"Ten,"_ the voice of a little boy said.

It was almost as if a switch had been flicked as everyone suddenly became more alert. Sherlock's eyes widened in horror, and he whirled back around to study the painting again, more frantic than before. "It's a kid!" Lestrade exclaimed. "Oh God, it's a kid!"

 _"Nine,"_ the boy continued.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "It's a countdown," he said. "He's giving me time." He groaned. "The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? _How?!"_

 _"Eight."_

The boy's voice broke, and Max shared a look with John. "I know you can't speak to us, little guy, but we're going to get you out of there, alright?" she said to the boy. "Just be brave."

Raz frowned. "We have to do something!" he exclaimed.

Sherlock whirled back around to glare at Ms. Wenceslas. "This kid will die," he snapped. "Tell me why the painting is a fake. Tell me!"

It seemed like she was about to reply, but then Sherlock held up a hand to stop her. "No, shut up," he interrupted. "Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out."

 _"Seven."_

John started pacing irritably, and Lestrade looked as if he would like nothing more than to do the same.

Sherlock frowned. "Must be possible, must be staring me in the face," he muttered.

 _"Six."_

Raz looked at Lestrade desperately. "You can't do anything about this?" he demanded.

Lestrade gestured to Sherlock. "What do you _think_ we're doing?" he retorted.

Sherlock growled. "Woodbridge knew, but _how?!"_ he shouted.

 _"Five."_

Lestrade frowned. "It's speeding up!" he warned.

Max glanced at Sherlock. "Sherlock..." she trailed off. She didn't have to finish her sentence; she knew that he was fully aware of what would happen if he didn't solve this case.

Sherlock scowled in concentration as he studied the painting, but then his eyes widened in realization. "Oh!" he exclaimed.

 _"Four."_

Sherlock laughed happily and shoved the pink phone into Max's hands. Raz looked at him like he was insane, but Max knew what this meant; it meant that he was onto something. "In the planetarium!" he exclaimed. "Oh, that is _brilliant!_ That is _gorgeous!"_

 _"Three."_

He pulled out his own phone and started typing something into it. Everyone watched him in confusion, not sure what he was onto. "What's brilliant?" John demanded. "What is?!"

Sherlock grinned. "This is beautiful!" he declared. "I love this!"

Max glared at him. "Sherlock, focus please-" she attempted.

 _"Two."_

Sherlock turned around and snatched the phone from Max. _"The Van Buren Supernova!"_ he shouted.

Everyone held their breath for one tense moment, but then the boy's voice came over the phone again. _"Please,"_ he said. _"Is someone there?"_

They all breathed a sigh of relief, and Sherlock passed the phone to Lestrade. "There you go," he said. "Go find out where he is and pick him up."

Lestrade nodded and headed off with the phone, leaving the rest of them standing by the painting. "How did you figure it out?" Max asked.

Sherlock gestured to one of the dots in the sky of the painting. "The Van Buren Supernova, so called," he explained. He showed her his phone, which was still open to the search engine. "Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in 1858."

John nodded in understanding. "So how could it have been painted in the 1640s?" he agreed.

Ms. Wenceslas looked down at her feet.

His point proven, Sherlock turned and headed out of the exhibit. John glanced at Max and Raz, then seemed to decide that he was too tired to deal with them and headed out after Sherlock instead.

Lestrade returned a moment later, the pink phone in hand. "I have my people picking him up," he told Max quietly. "He'll be fine."

Max nodded. "Good," she replied.

He turned to Ms. Wenceslas, who was still standing there. "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me, Ms. Wenceslas," he said. She hesitated, then nodded and headed out of the room with Lestrade's hand on her back, just in case she decided to run.

"Greg," Max called. The detective turned around, looking at her questioningly. "Do you think that Sherlock cares about the people he saves?"

The detective was silent for a moment as he considered that, but then he shrugged. "I've known him for years and I've only ever seen him think about the case," he replied. "But I think he can change. He's doing it already, in his own odd way." With that, he turned and continued out the door.

Max watched him go, his words echoing through her mind. _I think he can change. He's doing it already, in his odd way._

Maybe a few days ago she wouldn't have believed that, but after what she had seen before, she did: because she was convinced that Sherlock had been genuinely concerned for the boy on the phone. She had seen the look in his eyes when he realized that a little boy would die, and something about the way that he had doubled his efforts to solve the case because of it... He really did care, even though he made it seem like he didn't. She suddenly felt a rush of warmth towards Sherlock, that bloody detective who refused to let anyone- not even himself- see who he really was: someone who cared.

But she saw. She knew. And something about that- about that hidden part of him, the person who he really was- was... attractive.

Wait... what? _Attractive?_

"Hey."

She turned around to see Raz standing behind her, a small smile on his face. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Raz! I completely forgot you were here! I'm so sorry!"

He shook his head. "No, it's fine," he said. "I don't mind."

Max frowned. "No, I feel bad," she told him. "You got us these tickets and we were only at the event for like ten minutes... I'll make it up to you. We'll go out another time, or-"

"No, really, Max, it's fine," Raz interrupted.

She blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?" she asked.

He shrugged. "You don't fancy me, Max," he told her. Max opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head. "No, you don't need to deny it. I can tell. It's fine, really. This was just a date." He smiled at her. "Friends?

Max was silent for a moment as she thought over everything that he had just said, but then she smiled at him. "Friends," she agreed.

Raz grinned and pulled her into a tight hug; she hesitated for a moment, then hugged him back. "For the record, you're the one who doesn't appreciate fine art," he told her.

She burst out laughing and pulled away form the hug, slapping him playfully on the arm. "Oh, shut up," she teased. He chuckled too, and Max smiled at him. "Thanks, Raz. I had a fun time."

He smiled back. "Yeah, me too," he replied. "I'll see you around, Max." He gave her a mock salute, then turned around and headed out of the room.

"See you around, Raz," Max muttered.

000

As soon as Max woke up the next morning she knew that she wasn't up to going to work, so she took the day off and met up with Sherlock at Scotland Yard.

"You know, it's interesting," Sherlock commented. "Bohemian stationery, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and _you,_ Ms. Wenceslas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?"

Ms. Wenceslas looked down at her feet, not answering the question.

They were currently in Lestrade's office. Ms. Wenceslas was seated in a chair in front of Lestrade's desk, and Max was sitting on the desk. The inspector himself was seated at his desk with Sherlock standing next to him, almost hovering over his shoulder.

"What are we looking at, Inspector?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Well, um, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least," he answered. "The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats-"

Ms. Wenceslas's eyes widened in horror. "I didn't know anything about that!" she protested. "All those things! Please believe me!"

It seemed like Lestrade wasn't completely convinced, but Sherlock gave him a tiny nod, confirming that she was telling the truth. Lestrade nodded back.

Max frowned. "Then what exactly were you trying to do?" she asked.

Ms. Wenceslas grimaced. "I just wanted my share- the thirty million," she answered. She glanced across the desk to Sherlock, then sighed and looked back down at her feet. "I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really: brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone."

 _"Hmph!"_ Sherlock muttered.

Ms. Wenceslas looked at him briefly, then turned away. "Well, nearly anyone," she amended. She took a deep breath, then continued with her narrative. "But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea, a spark which _he_ blew into a flame."

Sherlock looked at her sharply, his eyes starting at her intensely. "Who?" he demanded.

Ms. Wenceslas shook her head. "I don't know," she answered. Lestrade scoffed, and she looked at him pleadingly. "It's true!" she exclaimed. "I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people... his people. There was never any real contact, just messages... whispers..."

Max glanced at Sherlock, who was watching Ms. Wenceslas with unbroken concentration, his entire body angled toward her as he hung onto her every word. He was onto something, she could tell, and suddenly she was drawn into his eyes, as bright and fierce as a supernova. She felt that feeling of warmth again as she looked at him, the same one that she had felt last night when he saved that boy.

...Was she seriously beginning to fancy Sherlock?

She shook her head to clear it. _Focus,_ she scolded herself. It wasn't the time to be thinking about that, not in the middle of the case. She could figure this out later... whatever _this_ was.

"And did those whispers have a name?" Sherlock asked, his voice low.

Ms. Wenceslas hesitated, seeming scared for a moment; then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, she was calm. "Moriarty," she answered.

 _Moriarty..._

Sherlock leaned back against the wall, his brow furrowed in thought. Max knew what was going through his head now; he finally had the proof that he needed, the proof that the elusive Moriarty was the one behind all of these bombings. Now all he had to do was find him.

But that would be the hard part.

"Max," Sherlock suddenly said, breaking the silence in the room.

She looked up at him, their eyes meeting in pure understanding. "What do you need me to do?" she asked.

Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall. "Are you free for the day?" he wanted to know.

Max nodded. "Yeah," she answered.

He walked around the desk, heading to the doors. "I have another case to solve, and I would appreciate it if you could come with me," he told her. "Lestrade, I'm done here." Without another word, he turned and walked out of the office.

Max shared a look with Lestrade, then shrugged and headed out after him.

The door to Lestrade's office swung closed behind her, and she speedwalked to catch up to Sherlock. "What's the case?" she asked.

Sherlock glanced at her, slowing his stride so that they were walking side by side. "John is off solving my brother's case- the stolen missile plans," he explained. "He needs help. Are you in?"

Max nodded. "Of course," she said. "Let's go."

A few moments later, Max and Sherlock were in a cab, heading towards the train tracks where Andrew West had died.


	20. Joe Harrison

Wearing an obnoxiously bright high-vis jacket over his coat, John Watson was spending his Wednesday morning walking along the railway lines.

The sky above him was a dull gray color, making the tracks appear even more bland and depressing. Patches of dead or dying grass were scattered around the tracks, and everything was absolutely still besides John and the Tube guard who was supervising him.

John cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence. "So this is where West was found?" he asked the guard.

The guard nodded, clearly not interested in the whole thing. "Yeah," he answered. "Listen, you gonna be long?"

John shrugged. "I might be," he replied.

Instead of getting upset, the guard just nodded, as if this was completely normal. "You with the police, then?" he asked.

John grimaced. "Sort of," he said.

"I hate 'em," the guard declared.

John looked at him strangely. "The police?" he asked.

The guard shook his head. "Jumpers," he clarified. John self-consciously ran a hand over his own jumper. "People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards."

 _Oh._

John shrugged. "That's one way of looking at it," he said.

The guard scoffed. "I mean it," he told him. "It's alright for them. It's over in a split second- strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, hmm? They've gotta live with it, haven't they?"

John knelt down to examine the railway track, looking closely at the lines. "Yeah, speaking of strawberry jam, there's no blood on the line," he stated. "Has it been cleared off?"

The guard shook his head. "No, there wasn't that much," he replied.

John frowned. "But you said his head was smashed in," he reminded him.

The guard shrugged. "Well, it was, but there wasn't much blood," he explained. John frowned thoughtfully, and for a second neither of them spoke. Then the guard cleared his throat. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Just give us a shout when you're off."

John nodded. "Right," he agreed.

Without another word, the guard headed off, leaving John alone by the tracks. "Right," John muttered to himself. "So, uh, Andrew West got on the train somewhere- or did he? There's no ticket on the body. Then how did he end up here?"

"Points."

John whirled around to see Sherlock standing there, with Max next to him. "Knew you'd get there eventually," Sherlock said. "West wasn't killed here; that's why there was so little blood."

But John had bigger issues than that right now. "How long have you been following me?" he demanded.

Sherlock gave him a look. "Since the start," he replied, as if that were obvious. "You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?"

Max rolled her eyes. "Don't answer that, it's a rhetorical question," she said. "Hey, John."

John grinned at her. "Glad you could make it, Max," he told her.

She grinned back. "Me too," she replied.

"Come on," Sherlock interrupted, before they could continue the conversation. "Got a bit of burglary to do."

John blinked. "Sorry, burglary?" he asked.

000

"Yeah, this is definitely a burglary," Max declared.

She, Sherlock, and John were currently standing before the door of a small maisonette, labeled 21A. Sherlock was bent in front of the lock, picking it with deft movements, and Max and John stood behind him awkwardly. "The missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it," Sherlock said as he worked. "Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service."

John scoffed. "Yeah, I know," he replied dryly. "I've met them."

Sherlock nodded. "Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it," he clarified. "My money's on the latter."

Max glanced down the street to make sure that nobody was watching them. "I think there's been a lot of crime going on lately," she said. She grinned. "I heard about this crime that happened in a parking garage. It was wrong on so many levels."

Even though she was rather proud of that one, Sherlock stopped picking the lock, and both he and John just gave her a look.

"Cuz... y'know... parking garages have levels...?" she attempted.

John shook his head. "No," he stated. "No. Please don't. Just... stop right there."

She huffed. "Fine," she grumbled. "Hey, Sherlock, why are we here again?"

Sherlock turned his attention back to the lock. "Oh, sorry, I didn't say?" he replied. "This is Joe Harrison's flat."

With that, he opened the door and walked in.

"Jesus!" John muttered.

Even though he was still shaking his head in disbelief, John followed him into the building. Max glanced behind her to make sure that nobody was watching, then headed in after him.

There was a small staircase in front of them, and Sherlock headed up without hesitation. "Y'know, it would have been nice for you to hold the door," Max said to Sherlock. "I held the door for a clown the other day. I thought it was a nice _jester._ "

Sherlock paused on the stairs, looking at her with the same unamused expression that he had before, then continued on his way up. John just looked at her strangely. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Max looked at him oddly. "What do you mean?" she replied defensively. "Of course I'm okay. Y'know, I really don't like these stairs. I feel like they're _up_ to something, eh?"

John stared at her blankly for a second, then he sighed. "Yeah, no, you're not okay," he said. He put a hand on her shoulder and started walking her out of the building. "C'mon, I'll get you a cab home and-"

"No, no, John, it's fine!" Max interrupted. John paused, looking at her oddly. "I... I'm just nervous. Puns are my reflex when I'm nervous. I'm fine."

He gave her a look. "Nervous of what?" he asked. "Breaking and entering? You can leave if you want."

Max grimaced. "No, it's not that," she said. "I... uh..." She glanced up the stairs, where Sherlock had just reached the next floor and was beginning to look around.

John's eyes widened. "Oh God," he realized. "You... you fancy him, don't you? You fancy Sherlock?"

She lunged forward and clamped a hand over his mouth, her eyes wide in panic. " _Don't say it out loud!_ " she hissed.

" _Mph!_ " John exclaimed.

Realizing that John couldn't speak, Max stepped back and let him go. "Sorry," she said. "I'll stop with the puns. But... let's just talk about this later?"

John nodded. "Yeah, sure," he agreed. "But... I mean... I saw this coming, but... _Sherlock?!_ "

"Shut up!"

When they reached the top of the stairs Max saw that they were in a small, dingy living room that was sparsely furnished. Sherlock strode purposefully to the window on the far wall, pulling back the curtain and looking out at the perfect view of the railway in front of him. There was a one-story extension edged up right next to the building- the roof of which could be reached from climbing out the window- and the extension led to the bottom of a garden that ended at a wall. On the other side of the wall was a clear path to the railroad tracks.

"Ah," Sherlock said.

It seemed like everything made sense to Sherlock now, but Max and John just shared a confused look. "Uh... sorry, you said this is Joe Harrison's flat?" Max asked. "Who's Joe Harrison?"

Sherlock gave her a look. "Brother of West's fiancée," he answered, as if that should have been obvious. "He stole the memory stick, killed his prospective brother-in-law."

Max blinked. "Uh... okay," she agreed. "Sure."

Out of the corner of her eye, Max saw John looking from her to Sherlock and back again, and she glared at him. John just looked at her like she had lost her mind. _Sherlock?!_ he mouthed.

 _Shut up!_ she mouthed back.

Completely oblivious to their silent conversation, Sherlock knelt down in front of the windowsill. He took out a magnifying glass from his pocket, and he began examining the edge of the sill. Max and John walked next to him, peering over his shoulder, and for a second Max could see their faces reflected in the glass. Then she saw what Sherlock was looking at: tiny blood-red spots on the white paint.

"Why did he do it?" John asked.

Before Sherlock could reply, there was the sound of someone unlocking the door. The three of them shared a look, and Sherlock stood. "Let's ask him," Sherlock said simply.

As if on cue, a man stepped into the room, wheeling in a bicycle at his side. His eyes widened when he saw them standing there, and he raised his bicycle as if to use it as a weapon. Before he had a chance to do anything else, John whipped out a pistol, aiming it at him. "Don't," he instructed.

"John!" Max exclaimed. "What are you-"

The man paused, eyeing the pistol warily; then he sighed and put down the bike, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Max pushed down John's arm so that the pistol was aiming at the floor, away from everyone else. "God, John, we can't just break into someone's house and point a gun at them," she scolded. She turned to look at the man, doing her best to smile at him. "Hi. Sorry about that. I'm Max. Are you Joe Harrison?"

Even though he still seemed wary of them, the man nodded.

Max grinned. "Great!" she exclaimed. "We have some questions for you, if you don't mind."

000

Shortly afterwards, Joe was sitting on the couch, leaning forward with his head in his hands. Sherlock and John were standing in front of him, looking down at him sternly. Max was seated on the other end of the couch, her body angled towards the three men.

"It wasn't meant to..." Joe trailed off, obviously lost for words. "God. What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus..."

John frowned at him. "Why did you kill him?" he asked.

Joe looked up sharply. "It was an accident!" he protested.

Sherlock snorted in disbelief, and Max scooted forward so that she was facing Joe. "We're trying to help you, Joe," she told him. "Cooperate with us, please. Tell us about the missile plans."

Joe hesitated for a second, clearly wavering, but then he sighed wearily. "I started dealing drugs," he told them. "I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I dunno... I dunno how it started, I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands- serious people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about his job." He shook his head, grimacing in regret. "I mean, usually he's so careful, but that night after a few pints he really opened up. He told me about these missile plans- beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what-not. And there it was, and I thought... well, I thought it could be worth a fortune. It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew."

John frowned. "What happened?" he asked.

Even though he didn't say anything, Joe's guilty glance to the staircase told Max all that she needed to know. Her eyes widened in a mix of shock and horror. "You pushed him down the stairs," she realized.

Joe nodded, stubbornly avoiding their gazes. "I was gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late," he said. "I just didn't have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in 'ere, and I just sat in the dark, thinking..."

"... when a neat little idea popped into your head," Sherlock finished. He walked over to the window, looking out at the railway tracks. "Carrying Andrew West away from here... his body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved..."

"... and points," John realized.

"... and the body fell off," Max concluded.

"Exactly," Sherlock said.

John turned to Joe, who was still staring hollowly at the ground. "D'you still have it then?" he asked. "The memory stick?"

Joe nodded, and Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "Marvelous," he said. "Fetch it for me, if you wouldn't mind."

Even though it seemed like he did mind, Joe stood and walked into another room to get the memory stick. As soon as he was out of earshot, the three of them turned to each other. "Well, Mycroft's case is solved," Max remarked.

Sherlock nodded. "Distraction over," he said. "The game continues."

John frowned. "Well, maybe _that's_ over, too," he pointed out. "We've heard nothing from the bomber."

Sherlock scoffed. "Max, remind me how many pips there were in the beginning," he requested.

Max looked at him in confusion. "Five," she answered.

He nodded. "And how many have we had?" he asked.

"... Four."

Sherlock smirked. "Exactly," he said.

Before John could reply, there was the sound of footsteps from behind them, and they turned to see Joe approaching with the memory stick in his hand. "Ah, there it is," Sherlock said. He took the memory stick from Joe, then continued on his way out the door. "Let's go."

John headed out after him, and Max stepped towards the door as well; but then she saw the broken look on Joe's face, and something made her hesitate. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, then continued on her way.

"Hey, John, y'know why Joe's bike couldn't stand on its own?" she asked as soon as they were outside.

He gave her a look. "Why?" he asked.

Max grinned. "Because it was _two-tired._ "

"... I'm surrounded by lunatics," John declared.


	21. Moriarty

A few hours later, Sherlock had headed out of the flat for some reason that he refused to tell Max or John, leaving the two of them alone in the flat. Max had helped herself to some vanilla ice cream- hopefully Sherlock wouldn't notice- as John typed on his laptop, probably writing up their last case. The windows were still blown out, so they were both bundled up in their coats to keep warm, sitting across from each other at the dining table.

"I can't believe you're eating ice cream when it's this cold," John grumbled.

Max shrugged. "I like ice cream," she said simply.

It seemed like John was going to say something else, but he decided not to and turned back to his computer instead...

... only to slam the laptop closed and push it away.

"We need to talk," he stated.

Max looked at him in surprise. "Uh... okay," she agreed. "About what?"

John sighed wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Out of all the people in London... you choose Sherlock?" he demanded. " _Sherlock Holmes?_ "

She groaned, hiding her head in her hands. "John-" she started.

He held up a hand, gesturing for silence. "No, listen to me," he interrupted. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You... you're good for him, that much is obvious, and in an odd way he's good for you too. The way he acts around you... it's different than anything I've seen, and that's coming from his bloody flatmate. And I think he makes you happy too... even though I honestly don't get how, but-"

Max gave him a look. "John, this is literally the most awkward conversation I've ever had," she interrupted. "Please, just... get to the point?"

John sighed. "Just... be careful, will you?" he requested. "Sherlock... you know how he gets."

She nodded. "I know," she replied.

He frowned. "I don't want you to get hurt, Max," he said. "Sherlock isn't the easiest person to get along with." He hesitated, gathering his thoughts. "Do you know what he said to me yesterday, before the gallery? _Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._ "

Max was silent for a few seconds as she took that in, but then she nodded. "I know what I'm getting into, John," she told him. "Don't worry." She smirked at him. "For the record, you suck at this."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up."

000

Some time later, Sherlock had returned to the flat and was sitting in his armchair, watching a TV show. John was still at the dining room table, but Max had joined Sherlock in front of the television, sitting next to him in John's armchair.

"No, no, _no!_ " Sherlock shouted at the television. "Of _course_ he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

John sighed. "Knew it was dangerous, getting you into crap telly," he grumbled.

Sherlock scoffed. "Not a patch on Connie Prince," he replied.

John cleared his throat, changing the subject. "Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" he asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yep," he answered. "He was over the moon. Threatened me with knighthood... again."

Max grinned. "Only you would be threatened by knighthood, Sherlock," she said. Sherlock scoffed.

Nobody spoke for a few seconds, but then John cleared his throat. "Y'know, Sherlock, I'm still waiting," he said.

Sherlock glanced over at him. "Hmm?" he asked.

John gave him a look. "For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker," he explained.

Max snorted in amusement, and Sherlock glared at her before turning his attention back to John. "Didn't do _you_ any good, did it?" he retorted.

John grinned. "No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective," he pointed out.

Sherlock smiled back. "True," he conceded.

Max scoffed. "Thank God for that," she teased.

John rolled his eyes and stood up, closing his laptop as he did. "I won't be in for tea," he told them. "I'm going to Sarah's, there's still some of that risotto left in the fridge."

Max gave him a look. "You don't like risotto," she stated.

Sherlock scoffed. "It's because Sarah cooked it," he said.

John glared at him. "Hey-" he started, but he sighed when he realized that he couldn't argue with that. "Just, uh... we need milk."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll get some," he offered.

Both Max and John looked at him oddly. "Really?" John asked in surprise.

Sherlock nodded again. "Really," he answered.

John still looked dumbstruck. "And some beans, then?" he attempted.

Sherlock turned back to the TV. "Mm," he agreed.

It seemed like John was in shock- Max was too- but he nodded and began to head out the door, only to hesitate at the last moment. "Uh... y'know, after you two go to the store, maybe you can grab a bite to eat," he suggested.

 _Oh God..._

Max glared at him, trying to get her message across to him with her eyes. "John, it's fine, really," she protested. _I can do this myself,_ she was saying silently.

John looked from her to Sherlock- who hadn't turned away from the TV since the conversation began- then sighed. "Alright, alright," he said. "See you." He turned and headed out of the flat.

As soon as the door downstairs closed, Sherlock reached for his laptop and opened it, typing into his website. "We're not going grocery shopping, are we?" Max asked.

Sherlock nodded. "We're not," he agreed.

Max frowned. "So where are we going?' she asked.

In answer, Sherlock held out his laptop to her.

 _Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect._

 _The Pool. Midnight._

"... you didn't give the plans to Mycroft," Max stated.

Sherlock smirked. "Right again," he agreed. He closed his laptop and stood up, heading for the door. "Let's go, Max. We have an appointment to keep." With that, he walked out of the flat.

Max groaned, banging her head back against the chair. " _Sherlock!_ " she shouted angrily, but she got to her feet and followed him out.

000

"This is a bad idea," Max grumbled.

She followed Sherlock as he opened a door leading into the area surrounding an indoor swimming pool. They had taken a cab over, and now they had reached their meeting place.

"Sherlock, there's still time to back out of this," she said.

He scoffed as they approached the shallow end of the pool. "And why would I want to?" he replied. He glanced up at the viewing gallery, but it didn't seem like anybody was there.

Max scowled at him. "Because people can _die_ , Sherlock!" she hissed. " _And_ it's government property!"

Completely ignoring her, Sherlock turned back to the pool, holding up the Bruce-Partington memory stick. "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present!" he called. "That's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance... all to distract me from _this._ " He brandished the memory stick again, turning in a slow circle while waiting for a response.

Max sighed. "No going back now," she muttered.

A door halfway down the room opened when Sherlock's back was turned to the pool, and Max's eyes widened when she saw who stepped out. "Sherlock," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "Turn around."

He did as she said...

... and froze in place.

"Evening," John said.

He was wrapped snugly in a jacket, hands tucked securely into his pockets. He didn't move to walk closer to them, just stood tensely by the pool. Something was off.

Max frowned. "John, what are you doing here?" she asked. "I was joking about the risotto-"

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John interrupted, speaking tensely.

Sherlock scowled. "John, what the hell...?" he trailed off.

"Bet you never saw _this_ coming," John continued.

Max gave him a look. "John, what's wrong?" she demanded.

Sherlock began walking closer to John, caution in his every step. Max knew exactly what he was thinking, because she was thinking it too; what was John doing? He was supposed to be at Sarah's, so why was he here?

She figured it out as soon as John pulled open his jacket, revealing the bomb strapped to his chest. From somewhere in the upper gallery, the red point from a sniper's laser began to dance over the bomb.

"No," Max breathed.

John stubbornly avoided meeting her gaze, or Sherlock's for that matter. "What... would you like me... to make him say... next?" he asked, narrating the words that were being fed to him from an earpiece. Sherlock continued approaching, looking around as he tried to see who else was in the area; Max, on the other hand, was frozen in shock, staring at John in horror. "Gottle o' geer, gottle o'geer, gottle o'geer..." His voice trembled.

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped.

John grimaced. "Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died," he told them. "I stopped him." He cringed. "I can stop John Watson too... Stop his heart."

And that was when Max had enough.

"That's _it!_ " Max shouted angrily, breaking out of her shock. "If you're so smart, you don't need all these games and the secrecy! I'm getting John, right now!"

She stormed towards John, fully intent on ripping the bomb off of him, and that was enough for John to break his stoic facade. "Max, stop!" he shouted. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock grabbed her as she stormed past him, wrapping his arms around her to hold her back. " _NO!_ " Max yelled, struggling against his arms. In any other situation she would have been able to enjoy Sherlock's embrace, but not when John was strapped to a bomb mere meters away from them. " _Let me GO!_ "

But the sniper fired off a shot, and Max flinched as the bullet hit the concrete by John's feet; it was a warning, reminding them that John's life was in the hands of the mysterious man who had been stringing them along ever since that first explosion.

Max slumped, realizing that anything she did would just make it worse. Sherlock pulled her closer, his arms comforting now instead of restraining her. "Shh," he said quietly, close enough that she could feel his cheek against hers. "I know, it hurts. But please, follow my lead. Let me do the talking." Max hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you."

He pulled away, turning back to face John. "Who are you?" he called. "Show yourself!"

In answer, a door opened at the far end of the pool. "I gave you my number," a soft male voice said. Max caught a glimpse of a man wearing a suit and tie, but before she could make out any defining features, he was obscured by a column. "I thought you might call."

The man stepped out into the light, and Max recognized him instantly: Jim, Molly's boyfriend. But the man in front of them wasn't the clumsy, possibly-gay man who they had met in the lab; this was an immaculately-dressed man with carefully-arranged hair and cold, bottomless eyes.

"You've got to be kidding me," Max muttered.

He strolled towards them alongside the deep end of the pool, as if he were walking in the park. Max was torn between punching him in the face or hurling in the nearest garbage can. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" he asked casually.

Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out said pistol, aiming it at Jim. "Both," he answered coldly.

Jim stopped walking and looked at him, completely unafraid. "Jim Moriarty," he said, his voice cheerful. "Hi!"

So Sherlock had been right; the person behind all of this had been Moriarty. But he seemed far from pleased as he stared down his nemesis.

"Jim?" Moriarty questioned, as if he needed to remind Sherlock who he is. "From the hospital?" He began to walk closer to them again, looking at him in disappointment. "Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose that was rather the point."

Max glared at him. "Trust me, we remember you," she snapped.

Moriarty smiled. "Ah, of course, Max," he said. She flinched as his eyes focused on her. "The artist. You have the eyes of a painter; naturally you would recall the small details. Too bad you're not smart enough to put the puzzle pieces together."

Sherlock scowled and stepped in front of her, protecting her from Moriarty's gaze. "Leave her alone," he snapped. "She has nothing to do with this."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "Oh, but are you sure?" he asked. "Then why are you trying to protect her? Her and this one here." He nodded towards John, who was clenching his fists angrily, fighting the urge to jump into this. Sherlock looked at the bomb on John's chest questioningly, and Moriarty scoffed. "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

By this point he had reached the corner of the pool. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock," he told him. "Just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see..." He blinked in surprise, as if he had only just realized the connection. "... like you!"

Max scowled. "Sherlock is nothing like you, you basta-" she started.

"Oh, but is he?" Moriarty interrupted. "Sherlock knows I'm right. I'm always right."

Sherlock scoffed. ""Dear Jim,'" he said mockingly. "'Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?'" Moriarty kept walking, grinning as Sherlock made the connection. "'Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?'"

"Just so," Moriarty agreed happily.

Sherlock looked at him with a look that he had only ever given Max: respect. "Consulting criminal," he realized. "Brilliant."

Moriarty smiled proudly. "Isn't it?" he asked. "No one ever gets to me... and no one ever will."

In response, Sherlock cocked his pistol. " _I_ did," he said.

Moriarty nodded indulgently. "You've come the closest," he admitted. "Now you're in my way."

Sherlock smirked. "Thank you," he replied.

Moriarty scoffed. "Didn't mean it as a compliment," he said.

Sherlock just gave him a look. "Yes you did," he told him.

Moriarty hesitated, then shrugged. "Yeah, okay, I did," he agreed. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock... _Daddy's had enough now!"_

He was getting closer now, even though he still hadn't reached where John was standing. Sherlock glanced back at Max to make sure that she was okay, then returned his attention to Moriarty. "I've shown you what I can do," Moriarty said. "I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty-million quid just to get you to come out and play." John closed his eyes, trembling slightly. Max looked at him in concern, resisting the urge to run up to him and get him far away from here; but that wasn't possible, and they all knew it. "So take this as a friendly warning, my dear: _back off._ "

Moriarty smiled at them, sickeningly sweet. "Although I have loved this little game of ours," he continued. "Playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

Sherlock glared at him. "People have died," he stated.

And suddenly Moriarty's features distorted as he sneered at them, his eyes shining angrily. "That's what people _DO!"_ he shouted, the last word echoing throughout the empty room.

Max flinched, but Sherlock just stared right back at him. "I _will_ stop you," he said softly.

Moriarty gave him a small smile. "No, you won't," he replied.

Sherlock turned his attention to John, looking at him in concern. "You alright?" he asked.

John grimaced, clearly not allowed to talk, but Moriarty smirked at him as he reached his side. "You can talk, Johnny-boy," he said. "Go ahead."

Max felt a sour taste in her throat as Moriarty used her nickname for John, but John didn't react to it, making eye contact with Sherlock instead. He gave him a barely-perceptible nod, and Sherlock nodded back. Without a word, Sherlock took one hand off of the pistol and held out the memory stick to Moriarty. "Take it," he told him.

Moriarty blinked. "Huh?" he asked. "Oh! That!" He strolled past John and took the stick from Sherlock's fingers. "The missile plans!... _Boring!_ I could've gotten them anywhere."

He tossed it into the pool.

Without hesitating, John rushed forward and slammed himself against Moriarty's back, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest. "Max, Sherlock, run!" he shouted.

Moriarty just laughed, clearly not concerned about this change of events. "Good!" he exclaimed happily. "Very good!"

Sherlock didn't move, still aiming his gun at Moriarty, but he glanced up anxiously, as if wondering what the hidden sniper would do. Max scowled at John. "We're not leaving without you, John!" she snapped.

John pulled Moriarty closer onto the bomb. "If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," he snarled.

Moriarty just laughed. "Isn't he sweet?" he said to Sherlock. "I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal." His expression darkened. "But, _oops!_ You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson." He chuckled, and John's eyes widened in horror. It took Max and Sherlock a second longer to realize what had just happened; the two of them had laser points on their foreheads now.

"Great," Max grumbled.

Moriarty grinned. " _Gotcha!_ " he exclaimed.

Grudgingly, John stepped back, releasing Moriarty from his grasp. The consulting criminal smoothed out his suit. "Westwood!" he grumbled.

Max glared at him. "Maybe you shouldn't wear your good suits when you threaten someone's life," she snapped.

Moriarty scowled at her. "Sherlock, keep your pets under control," he said.

She bristled. "I'm nobody's pet-" she started.

"Hush now," Moriarty interrupted. He turned to Sherlock, completely ignoring her and John. "D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, let me guess: I get killed," he said flatly.

Moriarty grimaced. "Kill you?" he repeated in disgust. "N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no. If you don't stop prying... I'll _burn_ you." He sneered at Sherlock viciously. "I'll burn the _heart_ out of you."

Instead of getting unnerved, Sherlock just scoffed. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," he retorted.

But Moriarty simply smiled at him, as if he knew something that Sherlock didn't. "We both know that's not quite true," he said. Sherlock blinked in surprise, and Moriarty just shrugged. "Well, I'd better be off." He grinned at Sherlock. "So nice to have had a proper chat."

Max grimaced. "Can't say the same," she muttered.

Without warning, Sherlock raised his pistol higher, bringing it closer to Moriarty's head. "What if I was to shoot you now?" he asked coldly. "Right now?"

Moriarty grinned. "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," he answered. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock; really, I would." He screwed up his nose. "And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." He gave them a mock salute. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

With that, he started heading off.

Sherlock watched him go, his eyes trained on him. "Catch you later," he called.

Moriarty grinned as he walked through the door that he had come through. "No you won't!" he exclaimed. And then he was gone.

Instantly Max was rushing towards John, pulling him into a bone-breaking hug. "Oh my God, John, what the hell?!" she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

"Max-" John started.

"I'm never letting you out of my sight _again!_ " she told him.

"Max-" John attempted.

" _You could have died!_ " she interrupted. "Oh God, I think I'm gonna cry-"

Suddenly there was a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Max," Sherlock said calmly. "I need to get the bomb off."

Max sniffled. "Right," she agreed. "Sorry." She stepped back, wiping tears from her eyes.

Sherlock turned to John and dropped to his knees, urgently unfastening the vest to which the bomb was attached. "Alright?" he asked. John took a shuddering breath, trying to compose himself. " _Are you alright?_ "

John blinked, bringing himself back to reality. "Y-yeah, I'm fine," he answered.

Something out of the corner of Max's eyes caught her attention, and she glanced at the ground to see that Sherlock had dropped his pistol. Trembling slightly, she bent down and picked it up, feeling her fingers close around the cold metal.

When she turned her attention back to the others, Sherlock had managed to get the vest off, and as she watched he threw it as far away along the floor as he can. "Jesus," John muttered, obviously still recovering.

Sherlock glanced at Max, and she wordlessly held out the pistol. He grabbed it from her and ran out the door that Moriarty had left... but she knew that he was long gone.

Suddenly John's knees buckled, but he caught himself at the last minute before he could fall. "Oh, John," Max said. She helped him over to the nearest support, which happened to be the edge of one of the changing cubicles.

"Christ," he muttered. "Jesus. Max, are you oka-"

Max pulled him into a hug again, and this time he returned it, pulling her close. "Don't you dare ask if _I'm_ okay, John Watson," she said sharply. " _I'm_ not the one who was just strapped to a bomb."

Before John could reply, Sherlock came back into the pool, shaking his head in disappointment. He started pacing, so distracted that he didn't even realize he was scratching his head with the wrong end of a cocked and loaded pistol.

" _Sherlock!_ " Max exclaimed. He jumped, looking at her in surprise. "The gun?"

He lowered the gun. "Right," he agreed.

John looked at him in concern. "Are _you_ okay?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't even look at him, still pacing anxiously. "Me?" he repeated. "Yeah, I'm fine." He finally stopped pacing and turned to John, still breathless. "That... er... _thing_ that you, er, that you did- that, um...you offered to do. That was, um... good."

Nobody spoke for a few seconds, but then John chuckled. "I'm glad no one saw that," he commented. Max and Sherlock looked at him oddly, and John nodded to Sherlock. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

Sherlock grinned, seeming to have returned to his senses. "People do little else," he replied.

They shared a look for a moment, taking a few seconds to comprehend that it was over. Then John burst out laughing, followed by Max, and Sherlock smiled indulgently.

But then the beam from a sniper's laser was back, pointing at John's chest. The smiles slid from their faces as they looked at it... and watched helplessly as the points began to multiply, two on John and Max each and at least three travelling on Sherlock's body. "Oh," John muttered.

The door at the deep end of the pool opened again, and Moriarty strode through, clapping his hands together gleefully. "Sorry boys!" he exclaimed. He nodded at Max. "And lady. I'm soooooo changeable!"

Max scowled. "Great," she grumbled. She saw Sherlock glance up into the gallery to try and judge how many snipers were there, but it was too dark to see anything.

Moriarty grinned. "It's a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it's my _only_ weakness," he continued. He shrugged. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I _would_ try to convince you, but..." He laughed. "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Sherlock looked at John, who met his gaze evenly. Without a word, John nodded.

And then he turned to Max, his face expressionless but his eyes saying it all. She knew what he was asking; he wanted permission to do what he had to. Max hesitated, then nodded. He gave her a small smile, then turned to face Moriarty.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock said.

He raised the pistol and aimed it at Moriarty, who just smiled confidently.

Slowly, he lowered the pistol downwards... aiming it right at the bomb jacket.

"Oh no," Max muttered.

All four sets of eyes locked onto the jacket. John pushed Max behind him, but she elbowed him out of the way, standing evenly between him and Sherlock. Moriarty eyed Sherlock carefully, looking anxious for the first time.

But then he lifted his gaze to Sherlock, locking eyes with him. Sherlock gazed back at him evenly, and Moriarty smiled, his eyes bright with the challenge.

The game was on.


	22. Aftermath

The next morning, Max woke up to the sun in her eyes.

"What the...?" she muttered. Rubbing her eyes groggily, she pushed off her blanket and sat up from where she was laying on the couch.

It was when she realized that was at the Baker St flat that she remembered everything that had happened last night. Her stomach sank, and she put her head in her hands as she remembered everything: the pool, Moriarty... the pistol, the bomb...

Shaking her head to clear it, she got to her feet and stretched, working out the cramps she had accumulated from sleeping on the couch. It took her a moment to realize that Sherlock was sitting at the dining table.

He was wearing the same clothes that he had been last night, and it didn't seem like he had changed... or moved, for that matter. He didn't acknowledge her presence; he just stared out the window, lost in thought.

She didn't have to have Sherlock's analytical skill to figure out that he hadn't slept.

Wordlessly, she walked past him and into the kitchen. A moment later, she sat down across from him with two cups of steaming-hot tea. She pushed one towards him, then started pouring sugar packets into her own.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

Max hesitated. "I, uh... I will be," she answered.

She thought back to the events of last night, after Sherlock had aimed the pistol at the bomb.

 _Everything was still. Sherlock, Max, and John were standing shoulder to shoulder at the pool where Carl Powers had died, facing Moriarty. Sherlock had his pistol trained on the bomb jacket, a silent challenge. Nobody moved; they were all waiting to see whether Sherlock or Moriarty would back down first. Max's heart was beating rapidly; she knew that this could possibly be her death, at only twenty-four years old. She still had her entire life ahead of her, and she didn't want to die._

 _But there was nothing she could do but trust Sherlock._

 _Suddenly music started playing, echoing through the otherwise-empty pool. It took Max a second to recognize the song: "Stayin' Alive" by the Bee Gees. "... Is that your phone?" Max demanded in disbelief._

 _Moriarty sighed in exasperation, clearly irritated. "D'you mind if I get that?" he asked._

 _Sherlock shrugged, as if this were something that happened every day. "No, no, please," he said. "You've got the rest of your life."_

 _With that, Moriarty pulled out his phone and answered it. "Hello?" he asked. "Yes, of course it is. What do you want?"_

 _He glanced over at the three of them, grimacing regretfully._ "Sorry," _he mouthed._

"Oh, it's fine," _Sherlock mouthed back._

 _Moriarty turned his attention back to the phone, as if Max and the others weren't even there, and he was quiet for a few moments as he listened to whoever was on the other side of the phone. Suddenly his expression distorted angrily as he scowled, his eyes shining furiously. "SAY THAT AGAIN!"_ _he shouted._

 _Max and Sherlock shared a worried look, then turned their attention back to Moriarty._

 _"Say that again," Moriarty said, his voice carefully controlled, "and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will sssssskin you." He scowled. "Wait." He turned around to Sherlock and the others, looking at them thoughtfully. "Sorry," he commented. "Wrong day to die."_

 _Max scowled, eyeing him suspiciously. "You're just letting us go?" she asked._

 _Sherlock scoffed. "Did you get a better offer?" he added, quite unperturbed._

 _Instead of answering either of them, Moriarty simply turned away and started walking back towards the door that he had came from. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," he told him. Without even looking back, Moriarty brought his phone to his ear again. "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."_

 _As he reached the door, he raised his free hand and snapped his fingers. The lasers on Max, Sherlock, and John suddenly disappeared, and with that Moriarty vanished from sight._

 _John breathed out a sigh of relief, and Max sat down on the ground, too drained to keep standing. "Oh God," she muttered. "We fully almost died. We almost died." Sherlock looked up at the gallery, but there was no sign of the snipers that had been up there._

 _"What happened?" John asked._

 _Sherlock scowled. "Someone changed his mind," he said. "The question is... who?"_

 _Nobody had an answer for him._

She shook her head to clear it, focusing on Sherlock instead. "What about you?" she asked. "How are you holding up?"

He scowled at her. "I'm fine," he answered sharply. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Max frowned, looking at him in concern. "You... never mind," she said.

Sherlock was silent as he looked at her, considering. Then he looked away, taking a drink of his tea.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments, but then Max smiled at him hesitantly. "Well, uh... that was one heck of a night," she commented.

They looked at each other, grinning at the sheer absurdity of sitting here calmly in the kitchen of Baker Street after facing near-death last night. Then inexplicably they burst out laughing, unable to control themselves.

"It's seven in the morning and we almost died yesterday," a grumpy voice said behind them. " _What_ are you laughing at?"

Max and Sherlock turned to see John shuffling out of his room, still in his pajamas and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The sight of him just made them laugh harder, and Max gasped for breath, tears streaming from her eyes. "Oh my... oh my God!" she laughed.

John looked at them like they had lost their minds- they might have, for all that Max knew- but then he started laughing too, laughing at the absurdity of it all. And it was in that moment that Max knew everything was going to be alright.

000

Max spent the rest of the day at Baker St with Sherlock and John. They had spent the morning relaxing, but when Max found out that Sherlock had never watched _Lord of the Rings_ , she had insisted on a movie marathon of the extended versions of all three movies. John had settled in on his armchair, and Max and Sherlock had grabbed the couch. Collectively all three of them had eaten through four bags of microwavable popcorn, three boxes of biscuits, and five bags of chips.

Well, actually most of that was Max.

By the time the end credits of _The Return of the King_ rolled around at 4:00 in the morning the next day, John looked positively dead after watching TV for twelve hours straight. Max shook herself back to consciousness- she had been dozing off for the past few hours- and yawned. "In hindsight, this wasn't the best way to get over a near-death experience," she commented drowsily. "How long did I sleep for?"

John shrugged. "Two hours?" he guessed. "Sherlock's been out for four hours though, so don't feel too bad."

Max looked down to see- to her surprise- that Sherlock had fallen asleep on her, his head resting in her lap. His curly brown hair was a complete mess, sprawled out in every which direction, and his face was completely relaxed, unguarded in sleep. She smiled slightly, feeling a sudden rush of affection for him, then looked up at John. "He needs to rest," she said. "He didn't sleep last night."

John nodded. "I know," he replied. He yawned. "We should probably get to bed too. It's four in the morning."

She yawned as well. "Yeah," she agreed. "I'm gonna head out."

He looked at her in concern. "Are you sure?" he asked. "You can stay another day. Sherlock won't mind you taking his bed, since he's on the couch."

Max smiled. "I know," she said. "It's fine though, really." She lifted Sherlock's head gently and slid off of the couch, then propped his head up with a pillow. After a second of hesitation, Max grabbed a blanket and put it over him. He was so deeply asleep that he didn't even stir. "When he wakes up tell him I said bye, alright?"

John nodded. "Got it," he agreed. "I'll... I'll walk you out-" He yawned suddenly, interrupting himself.

She waved him off. "No, don't worry about it," she said. "I'll text you when I get home." She walked over and gave him a hug. "See ya, Johnny boy."

He yawned again, sitting back down in his armchair. "Yeah, see ya, Max..." he mumbled, already drifting off. By the time Max was out the door, he was asleep.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Max opened the door and headed out into the street. The brisk morning air hit her, and she breathed in deeply, fully appreciating the fact that she was alive right now to be here. But she only had a moment to enjoy the moment before a black car pulled up in front of her. The door swung open, revealing none other than...

"Oh, what a coincidence to see you here, Mycroft," Max commented dryly.

Mycroft nodded to her from where he was sitting in the back of the car. "Ms. Arthur," he greeted. "Please, get in."

Max sighed. "I don't really have a choice, do I?" she asked.

He gave her a small smile. "No," he answered.

Sighing again, Max got into the car, closing the door behind her.

000

The car took off as soon as Max was settled. She shifted awkwardly in her seat, trying not to feel self-conscious of her crumpled clothes and messy hair. A chauffeur was driving the car, and a young lady who seemed to be Mycroft's assistant was sitting in the passenger seat next to him. Max herself was sitting in the back next to Mycroft, who seemed to be perfectly content just sitting there in silence.

"So, uh... did you want to talk to me about something?" she prompted.

Mycroft gave her a look. "You lost the missile plans," he stated.

Max nodded. "We did," she agreed. She didn't bother to lie; Mycroft would see right through it. "How did you know?"

He shrugged. "I have my ways," he replied.

 _Of course you do,_ Max thought dryly.

"My people recovered the flash drive from the pool, of course," Mycroft continued. "It's useless now, though; too much water will do that, I'm afraid." He paused, clearly waiting for her to say something.

Max gave him a look. "If you want me to apologize, I'm not," she stated. "Sherlock made that call."

Mycroft nodded nonchalantly. "Oh, I'm aware," he told her. "I'm not mad. I perfectly understand my brother's reasoning, even if I don't necessarily agree. Besides, we have other copies. No, I wanted to talk to you because I want to ask you some questions about him."

She blinked. "... You want to ask me about Sherlock," she repeated incredulously.

He nodded. "Exactly," he said. "I've observed that he is getting unusually close to you. Why do you think that is?"

Max looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Why don't you just ask him yourself?" she asked.

Mycroft scoffed. "If I asked my brother anything about this he would simply get irritated," he said. "Probability suggested that I would get a better answer if I talked to you instead."

She groaned. "God, Mycroft, I don't know," she replied. "Maybe he likes my hair." Mycroft gave her a look, and she sighed. "That was a joke."

He scowled. "Ms. Arthur," he warned.

Max sighed. "Alright, alright," she grumbled. "It's as much of a mystery to me as it is to you, Mycroft. You've got the wrong person."

Mycroft looked at her thoughtfully. "No, I think I'm talking to the right person," he muttered. Before she could ask what he meant by that, Mycroft cleared his throat. "And what do you think of him?"

She blinked. "What... what I think of him?" she repeated. "Uh... He's a swell guy, I guess?" _He makes me laugh, he makes me smile... I trust him with my life and I know he feels the same... Being around him just makes me feel right..._ "I don't know? You can't just ask someone what they think of someone else at 4:00 in the morning, Mycroft!"

He nodded, as if that answered his question. "I see," he said. "Well, thank you, Max. That's all for today. Ah, and here's your flat. Perfect timing."

The car pulled to the side of the road, and Max glanced out the window to see that they had indeed reached her flat; something told her that it wasn't a coincidence that they had arrived just as Mycroft was done talking to her. She turned back to Mycroft. "Err... thanks for the lift, I guess," she told him.

Mycroft gave her a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It was nothing," he replied. "I'll see you soon, Max."

She frowned, slightly uncomfortable with his tone of voice; it was as if he knew something she didn't. "... Yeah," she agreed. "See ya." With that, she opened the door and climbed out.

The door had barely closed behind her when the car took off, leaving her dumbfounded as she tried to figure out what exactly had just happened.

000

A few hours later, Sherlock found himself drifting back to consciousness. The TV was on at low volume, and John was sitting in his armchair, typing on his laptop. Sherlock sat up, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "...What happened to _Lord of the Rings_?" he asked. "Where's Max?"

John glanced up at him. "Oh, you fell asleep," he answered. "Max left. She told me to tell you that she says bye."

Sherlock sat up, pushing his blanket off and looking around the flat. The sun was up by now, shining into the flat through the cracks in the planks over the window; it must have been far past noon by now, probably closer to sunset. "Well, at least tell me if they destroyed the necklace," he said.

John gave him a look. "... Do you mean the _Ring?_ " he demanded.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "You know what I mean," he grumbled.

John scowled. "Sherlock, did you even pay attention to the movie?" he asked. "It's literally called _Lord of the RINGS."_

Sherlock grunted. "I don't like fantasy," he said.

John groaned. "Then why did you agree to watch it?!" he exclaimed.

Sherlock scowled at him. "Because Max wanted to!" he retorted.

Neither of them spoke for a moment as John just started at him in disbelief. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked.

John laughed dryly. "Why am I looking at you like this?" he repeated. "Oh my God, you don't see it, do you?"

Sherlock scowled. "I don't see what?" he demanded.

That just caused John to burst out laughing even harder. "You never put up with anything if you don't like it!" he exclaimed. "You _fancy_ her!"

Sherlock groaned. "We've been over this before," he reminded him. "I don't."

John just grinned at him. "Yeah, sure," he agreed sarcastically. Sherlock groaned again and fell back down onto the couch.

His mind drifted back to last night, when they had faced off with Moriarty at the pool. Oddly enough, he wasn't thinking about Moriarty, or that mysterious phone call that had caused him to spare their lives; no, it was Max that was on his mind, how she had stood before the face of death with her head held high and defiance in her eyes.


	23. To Blog or Not To Blog

A few weeks after their encounter with Moriarty, Max and John found themselves grabbing a quick meal during Max's lunch break.

"So where's Sherlock?" Max asked casually.

John shrugged. "Doing something with a dead man's fingernails," he answered. "I didn't want to ask." He paused. "Anyway, how's work going?"

Max rolled her eyes. "Same old, same old," she replied.

Neither of them spoke for a second, but then Max cleared her throat. "Uh... how have you been?" she asked. "After... y'know." _After Moriarty_.

John grimaced. "Coping," he answered. "Near-death situations don't really faze me anymore, y'know?"

She scoffed. "You love it," she corrected. "Don't try to deny it."

He hesitated, then grinned. "Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah, I do." She grinned back. "Uh, what about you? Are you okay?"

Max shrugged. "Yeah," she replied. "I'm fine. Actually... I'm not as upset as I thought I would be about it. I mean, I was pretty shaken up at first obviously, but now I'm fine. I guess... I don't know, I guess I'm getting used to all this stuff? Risking my life and all?" She looked at John intently. "Does that make sense?"

John was silent for a moment, and Max frowned in concern. "Johnny boy?" she asked. "You okay?"

But then he laughed, shaking his head in amusement. "Oh my God, we've converted you," he laughed. "You're one of us now. Welcome to the Dark Side, Max. We have cookies."

Max rolled her eyes, grinning widely. "You're a nerd, John Watson," she said. "You're a complete nerd."

John grinned back. "And you know it," he replied.

She reached across the table and punched him on the shoulder.

000

Later that day, John was sitting at the dining table, typing on his laptop. Sherlock was standing on the other side of the table, wearing a red dressing robe over his clothes while reading the newspaper and drinking from a mug. "What are you typing?" Sherlock asked.

John didn't even turn his attention away from the screen. "Blog," he answered.

Sherlock scowled. "About?" he pressed.

John shrugged. "Us," he said.

Sherlock gave him a look. "You mean me," he corrected.

This time John looked up at him. "Why?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, you're typing a lot," he said simply.

John huffed in irritation and was about to retort when the doorbell rang, interrupting him. Sherlock put his newspaper down as he walked to the door. "Right, then," he said. "What do we have here?"

000

Over the next few weeks, many people came to 221B to consult with Sherlock. Each of them sat on a dining chair facing the fireplace, seeming slightly uncomfortable under Sherlock's scrutiny. John stood next to Sherlock, quietly observing, and if Max happened to be there she sat at the dining table.

"My wife seems to be spending a very long time at the office," a man said.

Sherlock scoffed. "Boring," he declared.

000

"I think my husband might be having an affair," a woman told them.

Sherlock didn't even blink. "Yes," he stated.

000

A man sat in front of them, holding an urn. "She's not my real aunt," he insisted. "She's been replaced. I _know_ she has, I _know_ human ash."

Max groaned. "Oh God," she muttered.

Sherlock pointed to the door. "Leave," he ordered.

000

"We are prepared to offer any sum of money you care to mention for the recovery of these files," a businessman said, sitting on the dining chair with an aide on either side.

Sherlock scoffed. "Boring," he declared.

000

"We have this website," a geeky young man told them. Two of his friends stood behind him. "It explains the true meaning of comic books, 'cause a lot of people miss a lot of the themes."

Sherlock was already walking away, clearly disinterested.

"But then all the comic books started coming true," the young man continued.

Sherlock quickly backtracked. "Oh," he commented. 'Interesting."

000

A few days later, John was sitting in his armchair and typing away at his laptop, updating his blog. Sherlock walked by and leaned over his shoulder. "'Geek Interpreter,'" he read aloud. "What's that?"

John didn't even look up at him. "It's the title," he answered.

Sherlock scowled. "What does it need a title for?" he demanded.

John just smiled tightly and didn't reply.

Max turned her attention from the book that she was reading and leaned over to look at John's notes. "...Wait, hold up, you dressed up as _comic book characters?_ " she demanded.

John glared at her. "Unfortunately," he grumbled.

She grinned. "Oh my God, do you guys have pictures?!" she asked. "This is priceless!"

Sherlock scowled. "No, we don't have _pictures_ ," he replied, as if that were the most absurd thing he had ever heard.

Max reached up and patted him on the arm. "Oh, it's okay, Sherlock," she said. "I'm sure you looked adorable."

Sherlock looked at her in surprise, clearly at a loss for words, then sputtered out a few unintelligible words and walked off to the kitchen.

Max turned to John. "Was he blushing?" she asked in disbelief. "That definitely wasn't my imagination. He was blushing, right?"

John blinked. "Err, yeah, I think so," he agreed.

000

"Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock demanded.

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were at St Bart's morgue, examining a woman's body with tiny red marks all over her body. Sherlock was using his magnifier to examine the body, while John stood at the other side of the table and Lestrade lingered in the background.

John scowled at Sherlock. "Where d'you think our clients come from?" he retorted.

Sherlock gave him a look. "I have a website," he pointed out.

John scoffed. "In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash," he pointed out. "Nobody's reading your website."

Sherlock straightened indignantly and glared at John, then pouted momentarily. John stepped closer, returning his attention to the case. "Right then," he said. "Dyed blonde hair, no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are."

He pointed at the red marks, but by that point Sherlock had already left the room.

000

The next week, John was updating his blog again. Sherlock walked past eating a piece of toast, but when he saw what John was doing he stopped and looked at the title of the entry. "Oh, for God's sake!" he exclaimed with his mouth full.

John looked up at him. "What?" he asked.

Sherlock glared. "'The Speckled Blonde?'" he demanded.

Before John could reply, the fire alarm started beeping, and the next second Max came running out of the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind her. "Uh... I left the cookies in the oven for too long," she said breathlessly. "Way too long. We, uh... we might want to steer clear of the kitchen until the smoke clears out?"

John groaned.

000

Two little girls sat together on the dining chair, looking up at Sherlock with wide eyes. "They wouldn't let us see Granddad when he was dead," one of the little girls said. "Is that 'cause he'd gone to heaven?"

Sherlock scowled. "People don't really go to heaven when they die," he snapped. "They're taken to a special room and burned."

The two girls looked at each other with wide eyes.

"Sherlock..." John warned.

Max cleared her throat, doing her best to smile at the girls. "So, uh... do either of you want something to eat?" she offered. She glanced into the kitchen, trying to think of what food they had. "What about... uh... burnt cookies?"

000

A few days later, Lestrade was leading Sherlock, John, and Max across a stretch of open ground. "There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday," he told them. "Everyone dead."

Sherlock nodded. "Suspected terrorist bomb," he added. "We do watch the news."

John scoffed. "You said 'boring' and turned over," he reminded him.

By this point they had reached where Lestrade wanted to show them: a car with its trunk open. And inside the trunk was...

"A body," Max stated.

Lestrade nodded. "Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board," he told them. He looked at a bag of evidence from the scene. "Inside his coat he's got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits. Here's his passport stamped in Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday but instead he's in a car boot in Southwark."

John nodded. "Lucky escape!" he commented.

Max scoffed. "Yeah, sure," she agreed sarcastically. "I know what this is. This is some _Final Destination_ situation here."

Sherlock looked at her blankly. " _Final Destination?_ " he repeated.

John nodded. "Y'know, that movie where these people are supposed to go on an airplane but they miss their flight or something, and the airplane crashes and then those people die one by one or whatever because they were supposed to die in the crash?" he said.

Sherlock gave Max a look. "This is nothing like that," he told her. "He didn't miss his flight."

Max scowled. "It's close enough- y'know, never mind," she sighed.

Lestrade cleared his throat, bringing their attention back to the case at hand. "Any ideas?" he asked.

Sherlock bent over the man's hand, examining it with his magnifier. "Eight, so far," he answered. He straightened up and looked at the body again, then frowned. "Okay, four ideas."

He turned to Lestrade for the evidence bag, examining the passport and ticket stub. "Maybe two ideas," he amended.

But he never narrowed it down to one.

000

Later that day, John and Max were relaxing in the living room when Sherlock walked in. Max looked up from her book and nearly fell out of her seat. "Sherlock, what the _hell?_ " she demanded.

Sherlock blinked innocently, as if he weren't holding a blowtorch in his hand. He was wearing heavy protective gloves and had a pair of safety goggles on his head, and in the other hand that wasn't holding the blowtorch was a flask of green liquid. "What?" he replied. He walked over and looked at John's laptop. Max leaned over too, glancing at the title: _Sherlock Holmes Baffled._ "No, no, no, don't mention the _unsolved_ ones!" Sherlock protested.

John looked up at him. "People want to know you're human," he pointed out.

Sherlock scowled. "Why?' he demanded.

John shrugged. "'Cause they're interested," he answered.

Sherlock scoffed. "No they're not," he stated. " _Why_ are they?"

Max shrugged. "I'd be pretty interested if I were other people," she commented.

John just smiled, shaking his head in amusement. "Look at that," he said, gesturing to the hit counter on the home page. "One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five."

Sherlock blinked. "Sorry, what?" he asked.

John looked up at him. "I re-set that counter last night," he explained. "This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours. _This_ is your living, Sherlock- not two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash."

Sherlock scowled. "Two hundred and forty-three," he grumbled.

With that, he pulled his safety goggles over his eyes and headed back towards the kitchen, firing up the blowtorch as he did.

"Dear God," Max muttered.

000

Sherlock, John, and Max walked across the stage of a theatre as police officers milled around in the background. "So what's this one?" he asked dryly. "'Belly Button Murders'?"

John shrugged. "'The Navel Treatment'?" he suggested.

"Ugh!" Sherlock groaned.

Max shrugged. "I think it's kinda catchy," she said.

By this point they had reached the backstage, where Lestrade was waiting. "There's a lot of press outside, guys," he warned them.

Sherlock scoffed. "Well, they won't be interested in us," he replied.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that was before you were an Internet phenomenon," he pointed out. "A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three."

Sherlock groaned. "For God's sake!" he exclaimed, glaring at John.

But John just smiled back.

Max blinked. "Wait, all three of us?" she asked. "You've got to be kidding."

They walked past the dressing room, where Sherlock spotted some costumes on a rack. He grabbed a handful of items off of the rack. "John," he said as he walked back. He tossed a cap to John, and he caught it. "Cover your face and walk fast."

He passed Max a length of black fabric, which she proceeded to wrap around her head. "Why do we have to do this?" she asked.

Sherlock gave her a look. "Do you _want_ your face all over the Internet?" he retorted.

Lestrade shrugged. "It's good for the public image," he commented.

But Sherlock just scoffed. "I'm a private detective," he said. "The last thing I need is a public image."

He pulled on the third item that he had picked up from the rack: a deerstalker hat. And then he pushed open the exit door, and he walked out into the crowd.

Max and John shared a look, then shrugged and headed out after him.

Instantly they were blinded by the flashes of the cameras, everyone jostling around and trying to get a good shot of them. Sherlock paved the way, pulling up his collar as high as it could go, and Max and John walked behind him, both of them trying their best to avoid looking at any photographers. Somehow in the middle of the chaos, Max's hand found Sherlock's, and they walked hand-in-hand through the crowd.

They didn't let go until they were safely seated in a cab, driving away from the theatre and the crowds.

000

The next day at work, Max's friend Anna hurried up to her, eyes wide with excitement. "Max, have you seen the papers?" Anna demanded.

Max blinked. "Uh, no," she said. "Why?"

Instead of answering, Anna threw a newspaper onto Max's desk. "What the-" Max started, but then she saw the picture on the front page: Sherlock, coming out of the theatre last night. "Hold up, what?"

She grabbed the newspaper, unfolding it so that she could read the entire article. _Sherlock, John, & Max: Blogger Detectives_, the title declared. "Oh God," Max muttered. She put the newspaper to the side and turned to her computer, typing _Sherlock Holmes_ into the search engine.

There were articles. A lot of articles.

Max scrolled through the websites, taking in their sudden fame. _Sherlock Holmes: Net Phenomenon_ , one read. _Sherlock Net'Tec,_ was another. And her personal favorite: _Hat-man, Robin, and the Ninja: The Web Detectives._

"Wait, hold up, why am I a _ninja?_ " Max demanded. "Is this because of the black scarf I used? Seriously?"

Anna scoffed. "Who cares?!" she exclaimed. "You're famous, girl!" She grinned. "When can I get an autograph?"

Max was about to reply when Simmons walked by. "Let's get back to work, ladies," she said. "I know we have a celebrity in our midst, but our clients are waiting." She gave Max a fond smile then continued on her way.

Anna headed back to her own desk, but Max could barely even turn back to her computer when Tony leaned closer to her from where he was sitting next to her. "Hey, Max, I need to ask a favor," he told her. "Sherlock Holmes, he's a looker, eh? Do you know if he's single?"

Max scowled at him. "He's not interested," she said.

Tony grimaced, completely oblivious to her annoyance. "Darn," he grumbled, leaning back to his own desk.

She had just pulled up her current project when her phone beeped. Resisting the urge to curse, she pulled out her phone. It was a text from John.

 _Did you see the news?_

And despite her previous bad mood, Max found herself smiling as she texted back.

 _Yeah, Johnny boy! We're famous!_


	24. The Bedsheet

A few days later, Mrs. Hudson was milling around her flat on the ground floor, cleaning up after dinner as usual. She opened the fridge to put a bottle of milk away but recoiled at the smell inside. Putting the milk to the side, she started rummaging through the fridge to find the source of the stench.

It didn't take her long to find the offending item: the salad crisper. Frowning in confusion, she opened the crisper and took out a clear plastic bag that she had no memory of putting in there. She held up the bag to the light, then cringed and almost dropped it when she realized what it was. "Ooh dear!" she exclaimed. "Thumbs!"

She placed the bag back into the salad crisper and started upstairs to ask the boys if they had left the thumbs in her fridge- Sherlock did some strange things, after all- when an overweight man stumbled into the kitchen from the landing, barely clinging on to consciousness and seeming confused to see her here. "The door was... the door was..." he attempted.

And then he fainted.

Mrs. Hudson stared at him in terror for a moment, then looked up at the stairs. "Boys!" she called. "You've got another one!" She bent down closer to the unconscious man, who was sprawled out on the floor now. "Oh!"

A few seconds later there was the sound of three people rushing out of the flat upstairs, and then Sherlock was standing in the doorway; a second later, Max and John leaned out from behind him, trying to see around him. "Oh wow," Max commented. "That's a new one."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at her. "Oh, Max, I didn't know that you were still here!" she exclaimed.

Max shrugged. "I was over for dinner and then we got into an intense game of Go Fish," she said. "I'm winning right now, actually. Six pairs."

Sherlock scoffed. "For now," he grumbled. "I know you have a Queen-"

"How do you know?!" Max protested.

He rolled his eyes. "Simple math," he said. "Considering that we've put down one pair of threes, sixes, jacks-"

John cleared his throat. "Is there any way we could possibly get back to the unconscious man on the floor?" he suggested.

Max nodded. "Right!" she exclaimed. "That guy!" She glared at Sherlock. "This isn't over."

000

About half an hour later the man had regained consciousness enough to tell them that his name was Phil.

Phil was currently sitting on a dining chair facing the fireplace, his hands wrapped around a warm mug of hot chocolate that Max had made for him. John was sitting on the sofa behind him while Max sat at the dining table and Sherlock paced in front of him. "Tell us from the start," Sherlock ordered. " _Don't_ be boring."

Even though he still seemed a bit out of it, Phil began his story.

000

 _Fourteen hours earlier._

Phil was out in the middle of the countryside, at least an hour's drive from any town. His car had just broken down on a quiet country lane, and he was sitting in the drivers seat, trying to start the engine for the umpteenth time... to no avail.

He groaned and got out of the car once again, examining the open bonnet _once again,_ tweaking a few connections here and there. When nothing happened, he looked around hopefully for somebody he could ask for help; but the road to his side was empty, and the field on his other side was empty too.

Wait... no, it wasn't. The field stretched down to a river some distance away, and Phil could see a man wearing a red jacket standing at the edge of the river with his back to the road, looking up at the skies. Phil looked at him contemplatively, then decided that he was too far away. Sighing, Phil turned and got back into his car, trying once more to start the engine.

The first sign that something was wrong was that the engine started whining loudly, which it hadn't done before. The second sign was a violent bang that echoed throughout the field; the engine had backfired.

Biting back a curse, Phil looked across towards the river, expecting to see the man standing there... but he was now lying on the ground. Phil got out of the car for a better look. "Hey!" he shouted. "Are you okay?"

No response.

Phil started to walk towards him, concerned now. "Excuse me!" he called. "Are you alright?"

Unseen by Phil at the moment, the man had fallen into his back, sprawled out on the ground... and there was blood underneath the back of his head.

000

 _Now._

By the time the sun rose the next morning, a crime scene had been set up at the riverside, under Detective Inspector Carter. A young police officer hurried up to the DI, a mobile phone in his hand. "Sir," he said. "Phone call for you."

Carter took the phone, bringing it to his ear. "Carter," he greeted.

" _Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?"_ someone asked from the other side of the line. Carter recognized him as DI Lestrade.

He frowned. "Who?" he replied.

" _Well, you're about to meet him now,_ " Lestrade said. " _This is your case, it's entirely up to you. This is just friendly advice, but give Sherlock five minutes on your crime scene and listen to everything that he has to say. And as far as possible, try not to punch him."_

Carter blinked. "What?" he asked, but Lestrade hung up without answering.

Up by the road, a car had driven up and stopped by the crime scene as Lestrade had been speaking. Sighing, Carter started walking towards the car.

The police officer who had brought him the phone earlier was speaking to someone in the backseat, and as Carter approached the officer turned towards him. "Sir, this gentleman says he needs to speak to you," he said.

Carter nodded. "Yes, I know," he replied. He walked closer to the car. "Sherlock Holmes," he greeted.

A man stepped out of the car, average height and prematurely graying hair. "John Watson," he corrected.

Before Carter could reply, a woman clambered out of the car after him. She was taller than John, with dark mahogany hair and warm blue eyes. "Ugh, that was a long car ride," she grumbled. "My legs are stiff." She smiled at Carter. "Hi, I'm Max."

Carter looked from Max to John in confusion, probably trying to figure out where Sherlock fit into this, but then John pulled out a laptop from his bag. "Are you set up for Wi-Fi?" he asked.

000

A few minutes later, Max and John had managed to set up the laptop, and they watched on the screen as Sherlock strolled into the living room of the Baker St flat, wearing only a white bedsheet wrapped around him. "What are you _wearing?_ " Max demanded.

Sherlock looked at her oddly. " _A sheet_ ," he answered through the video call, as if that were obvious. Max sighed.

John scowled at him. "You realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?" he told Sherlock.

Sherlock just yawned, picking up a mug of tea from the dining room table. " _It's okay, I'm fine_ ," he reassured him. " _Now, show me to the stream._ "

John sighed. "I didn't really mean for you," he said.

Max rolled her eyes. "C'mon, Johnny boy," she grumbled. "Let's get this over with." She picked up the laptop, and the two of them walked down to the stream where the man had been found dead.

" _Look, this is a six,_ " Sherlock told them, as if that explained everything. " _There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Max, stop. Go back, show me the grass._ "

Sighing, Max stopped walking and titled the laptop down at the grass by the stream's edge, squatting down for a better view. John stood over her shoulder, sputtering indignantly. "When did we agree that?!" he protested.

Sherlock scoffed. " _We agreed it yesterday,_ " he reminded him. " _Stop, Max! Closer._ "

Before Max could do anything, John snatched the laptop from her and swung it around so that he was talking to Sherlock. "I wasn't even at home yesterday!" he exclaimed. "I was in Dublin!"

Sherlock gave him a look. " _Well, it's hardly my fault you weren't listening,_ " he retorted.

Max frowned. "That's, uh... That's not how it works, Sherlock," she told him.

Suddenly there was the sound of a doorbell from Sherlock's side, and he turned around to glare at the door. " _SHUT UP!"_ he shouted, then turned back to John.

John glared at him through the camera. "Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?" he demanded.

Sherlock shrugged. " _I don't know_ ," he answered. " _How often are you away? Now, show me the car that backfired_."

Sighing, John turned the laptop to the car, apparently giving up on trying to talk with Sherlock. "It's there," he said.

" _That's the one that made the noise, yes?"_ he asked.

John turned the laptop back around so that they could see Sherlock. "Yeah," he agreed. "And if you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. He wasn't shot; he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which then magically disappeared along with the killer. That's gotta be an eight at least."

But Max just shook her head, smiling slightly. "He wasn't thinking gunshot," she said. "It can't be a gunshot, it doesn't make sense."

Sherlock smirked. " _She's right,"_ he added.

John scowled. "Then what-" he started.

Suddenly Carter was there, looking over their shoulders at Sherlock. To his credit, he didn't comment on the bedsheet. "You've got two more minutes, then I want to know more about the driver," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. " _Oh, forget him_ ," he said. " _He's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?_ "

Carter scowled. " _I_ think he's a suspect!" he protested.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. " _Pass me over,"_ he ordered.

Max sighed. "Here we go again," she muttered.

John glared at him. "Alright, but there's a mute button and I _will_ use it," he threatened. He held out the laptop so that it was facing Carter.

" _Up a bit!"_ Sherlock exclaimed. " _I'm not talking from down here!"_

Sighing, John shoved the laptop at Carter, too impatient to keep dealing with Sherlock. "Okay, just take it," he said. "Take it."

Carter took the laptop, and instantly Sherlock started talking at double speed, just as he normally did while explaining his deductions. " _Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective?"_ he challenged. " _Fair play?"_

The DI scowled. "He's trying to be clever," he argued. "It's overconfidence."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. " _Did you_ see _him?!_ " he demanded. " _Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an Internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ, and a limited life expectancy: and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?!_ "

He turned his laptop so that they had a view of John's armchair, where none other than the man in question was sitting.

Max's eyes widened in horror. "Oh God, Phil, please ignore everything he just said, he didn't mean it in a bad way-" she started.

" _What did you say?"_ Phil asked Sherlock anxiously, apparently unconcerned about everything else he had said. " _Heart what?"_

Max grimaced. "... Actually, you might want to get that checked out," she amended.

" _Go to the stream,"_ Sherlock interrupted, before Phil could say anything else.

Carter frowned. "What's in the stream?" he asked.

Sherlock scowled. " _Go and see,"_ he ordered.

Grumbling, Carter handed the laptop back to John and headed down to the stream.

Before anybody could say anything, Mrs. Hudson walked into the flat, followed by two official-looking men in suits. " _Sherlock, you weren't answering your doorbell!"_ she exclaimed.

Max frowned. "What the...?" she muttered.

The two men strode into the flat as if they owned it. " _His room's through the back,"_ one of the men told the other. " _Get him some clothes."_

Sherlock scowled. " _Who the hell are you?"_ he demanded.

" _Sorry, Mr. Holmes,"_ the man said, in a tone that made it clear he wasn't sorry at all. " _You're coming with us."_

He reached out to close the lid of the laptop, and Max and John shared a look. "Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked. "What's happening?"

But before Sherlock could reply, the screen went black.

Instantly John started poking at the keyboard, as if that would do anything. "We've lost him," he said. "I don't know what-"

Max scowled. "Those people took him, that's what," she interrupted. She pulled out her phone. "That's it, I'm calling Mycroft."

But before she could do anything, the young police officer ran up to them, a mobile phone in his hand. Max turned her attention to him, but John kept jabbing at the keyboard. "Doctor Watson and Ms. Arthur?" he asked.

Max nodded. "That's us," she confirmed.

"It's for you," the officer told them.

John reached out for the phone, still not tearing his gaze away from the computer. "Okay, thanks," he said.

The officer hesitated. "Uh, no, sir," he replied. "The helicopter."

Both Max and John looked up to see a helicopter coming in.

"Oh geeze," Max muttered.

000

Meanwhile, back at the flat, the second man had returned from Sherlock's room with a set of clothes, which he placed on the dining table where Sherlock was sitting. Sherlock didn't even bat an eye at it.

The first man sighed, obviously impatient. "Please, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Where you're going, you'll want to be dressed."

Sherlock cast a casual gaze over the man, taking in his appearance. _Suit: £700. Unarmed. Tumbnail: manicured. Right handed. Indoor worker. Small dog._

 _Small dog._ _Two small dogs_

 _Two small dogs_ _. ... Three small dogs._

Sherlock smiled up at the man, his expression smug. "Oh, I know _exactly_ where I'm going," he told him.

000

Max had never been in a helicopter before, so as they flew through the skies she couldn't help but stare in wide-eyed wonder out the window. She grinned and turned to John, who seemed rather unimpressed. "THIS IS AWESOME!" she shouted over the noise.

John frowned at her. "YOU DO KNOW THAT WE'RE BASICALLY BEING KIDNAPPED RIGHT NOW, RIGHT?!" he yelled back. "AND THAT SHERLOCK MIGHT BE IN TROUBLE?!"

She just held out her phone, showing him a text from Sherlock that had just come in.

 _See you at the palace._

000

A few minutes later, Max and John were being shown into an enormous hall in Buckingham Palace. Max craned her head, taking in the large chandeliers on the ceiling and the ornate decorations of the hall. "Wow," she muttered.

Their guide cleared his throat to get their attention, and he gestured to a nearby room before walking away. Max and John shared a look, then headed into the room.

There was a small round table in the middle of the room, and a set of folded clothes and a pair of shoes were placed on top of it. A sofa was on either side of the table, and Sherlock was sitting on the couch to the left... still wearing the bedsheet.

Sherlock looked up when they walked in, seeming rather calm about the whole situation. John shot him a questioning look, and Sherlock just shrugged.

That seemed to be the only answer they were getting. Nodding in resignation, John walked into the room, taking a seat next to Sherlock on the couch. Max shrugged and followed him in, sitting on Sherlock's other side.

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds, just stared awkwardly at the sofa across the table from them. Max didn't have any urge to break the silence; she didn't know what to say, and even if she did, she felt awkward saying it in Buckingham Palace, of all places.

"Are you wearing any pants?" John suddenly asked.

"No," Sherlock answered.

John was silent for a moment as he considered that, but then he nodded. "Okay," he said.

Sherlock glanced at John, then Max. They were silent for a moment... and then they burst out laughing.

John chuckled. "At Buckingham Palace, fine," he said. He tried to bite back his laughter, but he just ending up laughing even harder. "Oh, I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray." Sherlock chuckled.

Max shook her head in amusement. "Well, this isn't the worst way to spend a morning," she commented.

John grinned, still laughing. "What are we doing here, Sherlock?" he asked. "Seriously, what?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know," he answered.

John laughed. "Here to see the Queen?" he suggested.

Before anybody could reply, Mycroft walked in from the next room over. Sherlock smirked. "Oh, apparently yes," he quipped.

The three of them burst out laughing, and Mycroft glared at them. "Just once, can you three behave like grown-ups?" he demanded. He scowled. "Ms. Arthur, I expected better from you."

John shrugged. "We solve crimes, I blog about it, he forgets about his pants, and she babysits us except for when we drag her along to do stupid stuff... which happens a lot," he said. "I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

Max grinned. "Hi to you too, Mycroft," she greeted.

Sherlock scowled, ignoring the other two. "I was in the middle of a case," he complained.

Max raised a hand. "Actually, _John and I_ were in the middle of a case," she corrected. " _Sherlock_ was sitting around in the flat."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Oh, is that your new system now?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was a six," he said. "I don't leave the flat for anything less than a seven."

Mycroft scoffed. "What case, the hiker and the backfire?" he challenged. "You consider _that_ a six? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent," Sherlock agreed.

John and Max shared a confused look. _Transparent?_ John mouthed. Max shrugged.

"Time to move on, then," Mycroft said. He gave Sherlock a stern look. "We are in the Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock, _put your trousers on._ "

Sherlock scoffed. "What for?" he asked.

Mycroft scowled. "Your _client,_ " he answered shortly.

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock stood up... still wrapped in his sheet. "And my client is?" he asked.

The door swung open dramatically, and they all turned to see a well-dressed man- presumably an equerry- walking into the room. "Illustrious... in the extreme," he answered, clearly enjoying his grand entrance. Max and John stood up respectfully. "And remaining, I have to inform you, completely anonymous." He nodded to Mycroft. "Mycroft," he greeted.

Mycroft nodded back, walking over to shake his hand. "Harry," he replied. "May I just apologize for the state of my little brother?"

Harry laughed. "Full-time occupation, I imagine," he teased. Sherlock scowled, and Max patted him on the arm.

"And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," Harry said, turning his attention to John.

John reached out and shook his hand. "Hello, yes," he replied politely.

Harry smiled at him. "My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog," he told him.

John blinked. "Your employer?" he repeated questioningly.

Harry nodded. "Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch," he said.

John grinned widely. "Thank you!" he exclaimed, shooting Sherlock a smug look.

The equerry turned to Max now. "And, uh, Ms. Arthur," he greeted. "The, uh... the artist." He clearly had no clue how to describe her; John had his blog and Sherlock was... well... _Sherlock,_ but she was... oddly normal, all things considered. Almost unremarkable.

Max nodded. "Yup," she agreed. "That's me."

Harry paused, obviously not sure if he should say something else to her, then passed over her and turned to Sherlock. "And Mr. Holmes the younger," he declared. "You look taller in your photographs."

Sherlock scoffed. "I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend," he answered dryly. He turned away from him and glared at Mycroft. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at _one_ end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." He nodded to Harry. "Good morning." And with that, he walked off.

He hadn't gotten far when he passed Mycroft, who sighed and dramatically stepped onto the trailing end of Sherlock's sheet. Sherlock, completely oblivious to this, continued walking... and the sheet slipped.

Sherlock managed to catch the sheet before it fell off completely, but his upper body was still bare. Max's eyes widened in horror and she looked away quickly, suddenly feeling awkward. _Oh God, don't freak out, don't freak out..._

Of course, Max had seen naked men before- and technically Sherlock wasn't even completely naked- so she didn't know why she suddenly wanted to melt into the sofa cushions and never come back out. It didn't make sense. But for some inexplicable reason, the thought of Sherlock stepping away from that sheet right now made her very _very_ flustered.

She shook her head to clear it and turned her attention back to the battle between the Holmes brothers over the bedsheet. Even though she couldn't see Sherlock she could sense his anger. "This is a matter of national importance," Mycroft snapped. "Grow up!"

But that didn't seem to matter to Sherlock, especially at the moment. " _Get off my sheet!"_ he hissed.

Mycroft scoffed. "Or what?" he challenged.

"Or I'll just walk away," Sherlock threatened.

That only seemed to amuse Mycroft, who looked at the sheet pointedly. "I'll let you," he said.

John grimaced. "Boys, please," he interrupted. "Not here."

 _Oh, thank God,_ Max thought.

"Who. Is. My. _Client?"_ Sherlock spat, more furious now than Max had ever seen him.

Mycroft gave him a look. "Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction," he snapped, clearly impatient. "You are about to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now, _for God's sakes-"_ He cut himself off before he could finish, glancing at Harry for a moment before reigning himself in. "... _put your clothes on!"_

Sherlock scowled, breathing in sharply as he attempted to get himself under control. Sighing, Max reached out and grabbed the pile of clothes on the table. "Let's just hear them out," she said gently. "Alright?"

Even though Sherlock still didn't seem pleased, he took in a deep breath and nodded. Mycroft nodded respectfully to Max as he lifted his foot off of the sheet, freeing Sherlock. Instantly Sherlock pulled the sheet back up to cover his upper body. After a second of hesitation he took the pile of clothes from Max and walked out of the room, not saying a word to anybody.

"Well, that was handled quite nicely," Mycroft commented.


	25. A Royal Problem

When Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later- fully dressed, thank God- Max was waiting for him, leaning on the wall across the hall.

"You took your time," Max remarked dryly. "Aren't boys supposed to be quicker in the bathroom?"

Sherlock looked at her oddly. "What are you doing?" he asked.

She shrugged, keeping her face neutral. "I was getting bored," she answered. "Your brother doesn't seem happy. His bad mood is rather contagious, isn't it?" Sherlock scoffed in agreement, and Max's expression changed to one of concern. "And I wanted to check up on you."

He frowned. "Why?" he replied.

Max nodded towards the room where John, Mycroft, and Harry were waiting, probably sitting in an awkward silence. "Things got kinda heated in there," she said. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Conversations between my brother and I are often _heated_ ," he told her. "I'm used to it."

Even though she clearly wasn't convinced, Max nodded. "Right," she agreed. "Just... if you don't want to take the case, you don't have to. You know that, right?"

He was quiet for a moment, thinking over her words, and then he gave her a small smile. "I know," he replied. She smiled back, and for a moment she forgot that John and Mycroft were waiting for them in the next room over and that they had a case to solve; it was just the two of them, and nothing else mattered.

Then Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly, looking away. "We, uh... we should go back," he said.

Max felt herself begin to blush, and she nodded quickly. "Yeah, we should," she agreed. "Let's go."

000

John gave the two of them a look as they walked back into the room, sitting down next to him. Max knew him well enough that he was annoyed at her for leaving him with Mycroft and Harry, but he was also curious as to why she was still blushing slightly and Sherlock was more flustered than usual, and he couldn't decide which of the two was more important at the moment.

Mycroft leaned forward and started pouring tea for them. "I'll be mother," he said. Superstition dictated that only one person- the "mother"- could pour the tea for the group, and Max found it vaguely amusing that Mycroft believed in that sort of thing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And _there_ is a whole childhood in a nutshell," he remarked dryly. Max snorted in amusement, but Mycroft glared at him as he put the teapot down.

"Uh, do you have sugar?" Max interrupted.

Harry cleared his throat, bringing their attention back to him... but not before Mycroft passed the sugar to Max. "My employer has a problem," Harry declared as Max began spooning the sugar into her cup.

Ah. So they were getting straight to the point.

Mycroft nodded. "A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature," he told them. "In this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

Sherlock glared at them. "Why?" he demanded. "You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr. Holmes?" he asked.

Max grimaced, still adding sugar to her tea. "They do," she admitted.

Sherlock's glare deepened. "But not, to date, anyone with a Navy," he quipped.

Mycroft sighed. "This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore _trust,_ " he told him.

John raised an eyebrow. "You don't trust your own Secret Service?" he asked.

That just caused Mycroft to scoff. "Naturally not," he said. "They all spy on people for money."

Harry scowled at all of them. "I do think we have a timetable," he reminded them.

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, of course," he agreed. He opened his briefcase, pulling out a photograph and then handing it to Sherlock. "What do you know about this woman?"

Max leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to look at the photograph; it was a woman, with brown hair, green eyes, and a haughty expression. She would have been completely unremarkable except for the look in her eyes that said _I eat men's souls for breakfast._ Max had a feeling that if she knew this woman from the photograph, she wouldn't get along with her.

"Nothing whatsoever," Sherlock declared.

Mycroft scowled at him. "Then you should be paying more attention," he said shortly. "She's been at the center of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately."

Max grimaced. "She sounds pleasant," she remarked sarcastically, finally adding the last spoonful of sugar to her tea.

But Sherlock didn't seem impressed. "You know I don't concern myself with trivia," he snapped. "Who is she?"

"Irene Adler," Mycroft declared. "Professionally known as the Woman."

John raised an eyebrow. "Professionally?" he asked.

Mycroft grimaced. "There are many names for what she does," he replied. "She prefers 'dominatrix.'"

Nobody said anything for a moment, but Max knew Sherlock well enough to know that he was mulling over this new information. "Dominatrix," he muttered thoughtfully.

Mycroft gave him a look. "Don't be alarmed," he warned. "It's to do with sex."

Sherlock glared at him. "Sex doesn't alarm me," he retorted.

But Mycroft just smiled dryly at him. "How would you know?" he asked.

Max suddenly started coughing loudly, and everyone turned to see that she had choked in the process of drinking her tea. John started hitting her on the back, and Sherlock gave her a look. "I told you that it was a bad idea to put that much sugar in your tea," he said. Max glared at him, knowing full well that sugar had nothing to do with why she was coughing.

Mycroft continued talking as though nothing had happened. "She provides, shall we say... recreational scolding for those who enjoy that thing and are prepared to pay for it," he told them. He reached into his briefcase again, pulling out more photographs. "These are all from her website."

Sherlock flipped through the photographs with minimal interest, and Max glanced over to see that they all featured Irene in a variety of revealing positions. She wasn't sure whether she should feel uncomfortable about looking at a complete stranger's naked body or if she should admire Irene for her confidence. "And I assume this Adler woman has some comprising photographs," Sherlock stated.

Harry nodded appreciatively. "You're very quick, Mr. Holmes," he praised.

But Sherlock just scoffed. "Hardly a difficult deduction," he said. "Photographs of whom?"

Harry grimaced. "A person of significance to my employer," he answered. "We'd prefer not to say anything more at this time."

Glaring angrily, Sherlock tossed the photographs on the table. "You can't tell us anything?" John asked.

Mycroft grimaced. "I can tell you it's a young person," he said. "A young _female_ person."

Sherlock, Max, and John shared a look. "How many photographs?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"A considerable number, apparently," Mycroft answered.

Max frowned. "There's no way to pass off the pictures as fake?" she asked.

Mycroft sighed. "They appear in the photographs together," he answered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios," he stated.

To his credit, Mycroft seemed rather nonchalant about the whole thing. "An imaginative range, we are assured," he said.

Apparently this whole scenario was a bit too much for John to comprehend, because when Max glanced over at him she saw that he was frozen in place, his teacup halfway to his mouth. "John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now," Sherlock advised. John blinked in surprise as he recovered his wits and did as Sherlock said.

Harry frowned at them. "Can you help us, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, getting them back on topic.

Sherlock scoffed. "How?" he challenged.

The look on Harry's face made it clear that he wasn't amused. "Will you take the case?" he said.

But that just caused Sherlock to scoff. "What case?" he demanded. "Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'know when you are beaten.'" With that, he began to get to his feet, clearly intent on leaving the room.

"She doesn't want anything," Mycroft declared.

Sherlock paused, turning back to look at Mycroft.

Max blinked. "Well, that changes things," she commented.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "She got in touch," he explained. "She informed us that the photographs existed, and she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favor."

And there it was: The Look that declared that Sherlock was interested. It was the first time that Max had truly seen it since the situation with Moriarty. "Oh, a power play," Sherlock mused. "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that _is_ a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?"

John and Max shared a look. "Uh, Sherlock-" John started.

"Where is she?" Sherlock interrupted, getting to his feet.

Mycroft blinked, clearly startled at Sherlock's change in attitude. "Uh, in London, currently," he answered. "She's staying-"

But Sherlock was already walking towards the doors. "Text me the details," he instructed. "I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

Harry frowned as they all got to their feet. "Do you really think you'll have news by then?" he asked.

Sherlock turned back around to face them. "No, I think I'll have the photographs," he said.

Still, Harry didn't seem convinced. "One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think," he remarked.

Max grimaced. "Uh oh," she muttered.

Sure enough, Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously at the challenge. For the first time since he walked into the room, he cast a quick glance at Harry, deducing him. Apparently deciding that he wasn't worth the trouble, he turned back to Mycroft. "I'll need some equipment, of course," he said.

Mycroft nodded. "Anything you require," he agreed. "I'll have it sent to-"

"Can I have a box of matches?" Sherlock interrupted, looking at Harry.

Harry blinked. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

But Sherlock just held out his hand expectantly. "Or your cigarette lighter," he amended. "Either will do."

Harry frowned. "I don't smoke," he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, I know _you_ don't, but your employer does," he told him.

John and Max shared another look as Harry sighed and handed his lighter to Sherlock. "We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes," Harry warned.

If anything, that just amused Sherlock. "I'm not the Commonwealth," he answered simply. With that, he turned away as he put the lighter in his pocket.

"And that's as modest as he gets," John interrupted before anybody could say anything else. "Pleasure to meet you." He started walking out after Sherlock.

Max nodded, walking backwards after Sherlock and John. "Yeah, it was nice," she said, forcing some cheerfulness into her tone. "We should do it again sometime. Thanks for the tea."

"Laters!" Sherlock called over his shoulder.

John gave Mycroft and Harry an apologetic smile, and Max mouthed _sorry_ before closing the doors behind them.

000

A few minutes later, Sherlock, Max, and John had piled into a taxi, with Max in the middle. "Okay, the smoking," John stated. "How did you know?"

Sherlock smiled slightly, shaking his head. "The evidence was right under your nose, John," he said. "As ever, you see but do not observe."

John frowned. "Observe what?" he asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Max?" he said.

Max closed her eyes, trying to recall everything in the room. "The ashtray," she realized.

Sherlock smirked, nodding. "The ashtray," he agreed... as he pulled out a glass ashtray from his coat.

John laughed as Sherlock tossed the ashtray into the air- the ashtray he had stolen _from the palace-_ then caught it and tucked it back into his coat, chuckling. Max smiled slightly, but then she glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of her eyes. Something about his laugh, the way his eyes were sparkling with satisfaction... It captivated her, and for a moment she could only stare at him, lost for words.

And then Sherlock's eyes met hers, and he smiled wider, his eyes twinkling happily. Max found herself smiling back, lost in everything about him. In that moment... well, everything seemed perfect

But the taxi made a sudden turn, causing Max and Sherlock to bump into each other. Both of them looked away quickly, Max blushing furiously. _I'm falling for him,_ she realized. Of course, she had acknowledged that she was attracted to him a long time ago, but it was then that she realized that she was serious about this, about _him._

She wasn't sure if she should be happy or concerned about that, but at the moment, she was definitely happy.

000

Little did they know, someone in the car next to theirs was taking pictures of them. And across London, those pictures were being received by a certain dominatrix.

Irene Adler smiled as she scrolled through the pictures of Sherlock, Max, and John. She wasn't worried about the other two; they were inconsequential. But Sherlock...

Well, this would be interesting. Very interesting.

000

"So what was that about?" John asked.

Max looked up from her book and turned her attention to him. "What do you mean?" she replied.

He scoffed. "Oh, you know what I mean," he said. "That look that you were giving Sherlock earlier. I haven't seen you look at someone like that for a while. You're serious about him, aren't you?"

" _Shh!"_ Max hissed, glancing around quickly to make sure that Sherlock was out of earshot. She didn't have to worry, though; she and John had the living room of the Baker St flat to themselves, while Sherlock was in his bedroom, out of earshot. Neither of them knew exactly what he was doing in there, but it honestly sounded like he was having a fight with his closet.

But John was still looking at her, waiting for an answer. "Oh, shut up," she grumbled.

That was answer enough for John, who gave her a small smile. "I get why you fancy him," he told her. "Tall, dashing, _very_ heroic... It's probably the heroic part, isn't it? Everybody wants to be swept off their feet by a knight in shining armor-"

"Okay, no," Max interrupted. "No, I don't fancy him because he's a hero, John. I fancy him because he's _himself,_ regardless of what everyone else thinks." She grinned at him. "Are you sure _you_ don't fancy him? That sounded kinda personal."

John looked at her in disbelief, sputtering. " _What?"_ he demanded. "No, no, no way. Sherlock? No, I don't fancy him. Why...? _No!_ I'm not gay!"

Max grinned. "Alright, alright, geeze, I was joking," she said.

He frowned at her. "I'm not gay," he repeated.

She rolled her eyes. "Sure," she agreed. John gave her a look, like he wasn't sure if she was being sarcastic or not.

Neither of them spoke for a second, but then John sighed. "I think he fancies you too, for the record," he told her.

Max sat up quickly, her eyes wide. "What?" she demanded. "You think he-"

Before she could finish her sentence, there was a loud bang from Sherlock's room, and she and John looked in that direction only to see a closed door. "What are you _doing?_ " John demanded.

"Going into battle, John," Sherlock answered. "I need the right armor."

And with that Sherlock emerged from his room, wearing a large yellow hi-vis jacket. Max blinked. "Uh... what type of armor is that?" she asked.

Sherlock looked down at his clothes, then shook his head. "No, this won't do," he decided. With that, he turned back into his room and closed the door behind him. A second later, Max and John heard the sound of more rummaging.

The two of them shared a look, and John shrugged. _You chose him,_ he seemed to be saying. Max rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to her book.

000

A few minutes later, Sherlock, Max, and John were in the back of a cab, making their way to the address that Mycroft had sent them. After all of the time that Sherlock had spent trying to find an outfit, he had emerged in his usual coat and scarf.

"So, what's the plan?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "We know her address," he answered.

John scoffed. "What, just ring her doorbell?" he demanded.

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly," he agreed.

Max frowned. "How does that help us find the pictures, though?" she wanted to know.

Sherlock just smirked. "You'll see," he replied. He leaned forward. "Just here, please," he told the cab driver.

The cabbie pulled to the sidewalk. Max glanced out at the house that they had stopped in front of, and she saw that they were a few houses down from Irene's. "You didn't even change your clothes," John protested.

Sherlock smirked as he opened the door of the taxi. "Then it's time to add a splash of color," he said. With that, he climbed out of the car.

Max and John shared a look, then hurried out after him.


	26. Brains and Beauty

After getting out of the taxi, Sherlock had led Max and John down a narrow street. Eventually- when they were far enough away from the main street that nobody could see them- he stopped and turned to face them.

"Are we here?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Two streets away, but this'll do," he replied.

Max and John shared a look. "Uh... I don't like the sound of that," Max said. "This'll do for what?"

As if this was perfectly normal, Sherlock turned to John and gestured to his own left cheek. "Punch me in the face," he instructed.

John looked at him like he was insane. " _Punch you?_ " he repeated incredulously.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "Punch me, in the face. Didn't you hear me?"

John huffed. "I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext," he retorted.

Max looked at him oddly. "I'm sensing a lot of aggression here," she commented. "Do you need to talk about-"

"Oh, for God's sakes," Sherlock interrupted.

Without warning, he punched John in the face.

John reeled backwards from the blow, grunting in pain. "Uh, Sherlock, I don't think that was the best idea-" Max started.

But then John straightened up, glaring angrily at Sherlock. Before either Max or Sherlock could do anything, he punched Sherlock in the face. Sherlock crumpled to the ground, not having expected the force of John's punch.

"Ow!" John exclaimed, shaking out his hand.

Max blinked, looking from John to Sherlock and back to John again. "Uh, was that really necessary?" she asked.

Sherlock pulled himself off of the floor, holding his fingers to the cut on his left cheek, right where he had wanted it. "Thank you," he told John. "That was... that was-"

John launched himself at Sherlock again, punching him in the stomach and sending him crashing to the ground. "Oh my God, John, stop it!" Max exclaimed. She rushed in to hold John back- or, to attempt to- but by that point John had ended up on Sherlock's back, half-strangling him.

"Okay!" Sherlock choked out. "I think we're done now, John!"

But John just glared at him. "You wanna remember, Sherlock: I was a solider," he growled. "I killed people."

Sherlock looked at him oddly. "You were a doctor!" he protested.

" _I had bad days!"_ John retorted.

Max managed to get her arms around John, and she attempted to yank him off of Sherlock; but John didn't let go, and the three of them ended up in a heap on the ground, a pile of arms and legs.

That seemed to knock some sense into John, because he stopped trying to fight Sherlock. Instead the three of them just laid there; Sherlock and John were too drained to move, and Max was stuck under both of them.

"Really, guys, couple's therapy is an option," she remarked sarcastically.

000

A few minutes later they were standing in front of the address Mycroft had given them. Sherlock was on the doorstep, sporting his cut- and a few additional bruises- while Max and John stood behind him.

 _"Hello?"_ a voice asked over the intercom, mere moments after Sherlock had buzzed it.

Sherlock sniffled, looking into the camera with wide eyes. "Oh!" he exclaimed, sounding anxious. "Sorry to disturb you. Um, I've just been attacked, um, and... um... I think they... they took my wallet and, um, my phone. Umm, please could you help me?"

The lady on the other side of the intercom was silent for a moment, probably considering her options. " _I can phone the police if you want,_ " she offered.

Sherlock nodded quickly. "Thank you, thank you!" he exclaimed. "Could you, please? And... oh, would you... would you mind if I just waited here, until they come? Thank you, thank you so much."

He took out a handkerchief and started dabbing at his cheek pathetically. The intercom buzzed again, and the door opened. Sherlock stepped in, followed by Max and John. "Thank you," Sherlock sniffed, still in character. If they were in any other situation, Max would have laughed.

The lady who had let them in- apparently a maid- looked at Max and John curiously, probably wondering what they were doing here. "We- we saw it all happen," John explained. "It's okay, I'm a doctor." He glanced at Max. "And, uh... she-"

"-is a friend of his," Max finished, gesturing to John. "We were going out for a bite to eat."

That seemed satisfactory for the lady, who nodded to both of them. "Now, have you got a first aid kit?" John asked.

The lady nodded. "In the kitchen," she answered. She gestured for Sherlock to go to the sitting room. "Please."

Sherlock blinked, as if startled that she was addressing him. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Thank you!" He turned and headed towards the room.

Max, John, and the lady headed into the kitchen, with Max bringing up the rear. Before she walked through the kitchen door, she turned around, glancing back at Sherlock; he was waiting by the doorframe of the sitting room, watching her and John walk into the kitchen. Their eyes met, and Max gave him a small smile. Sherlock nodded to her, breaking character just for a moment as his eyes shone with concern. Then he turned and headed into the sitting room. Max hesitated for a moment, then continued on her way to the kitchen.

000

Sherlock had wasted no time in making himself at home in the sitting room; he had taken off his coat and sat down on a sofa, looking around the room casually. Hearing the sound of footsteps approaching, he sat up slightly and lifted his handkerchief to his cheek again, getting into character.

"Hello," a voice said behind him. "Sorry to hear that you've been hurt. I don't think Kate caught your name."

Even though Sherlock had never heard her speak before, he knew who this was: the lady of the house. Irene Adler.

Speaking in the same posh voice as before, Sherlock turned around to face her. "I'm so sorry, I'm-" he started.

But then- for the first time in his life- his voice failed him.

The woman in front of him was most definitely Irene Adler; he recognized her from the pictures. But also, with the exception of high-heeled shoes... she was completely naked.

Irene smiled at him casually. "Oh, it's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?" she asked. She walked into the room gracefully, paying no mind to the fact that she had no clothes, and stood directly in front of him, straddling his legs and half kneeling on the sofa. Without breaking eye contact, she reached forward and pulled his dog collar from his shirt. "There now. We're both defrocked... _Mr. Sherlock Holmes."_

Sherlock nodded to her, dropping any pretense. "Miss Adler, I presume," he replied.

She gazed down at his face contemplatively. "Look at those cheekbones," she commented. "I could cut myself slapping that face." She smiled at him coyly. "Would you like me to try?" She lifted the dog collar to her mouth and bit down on the edge of it, raising an eyebrow: a challenge.

Of course, it was at that moment that Max and John entered the sitting room. John's eyes were down as he balanced a bowl filled with water, so he wasn't looking up as he walked into the room. But Max- who was just holding a fabric napkin- saw Sherlock and Irene immediately, and her eyes widened as she looked from Sherlock to Irene and back to Sherlock.

"Right, this should do it," John remarked, still oblivious.

Max cleared her throat. "Uh, John..." she trailed off.

Something about the tone of her voice caught his attention, and he looked up. For a moment his expression was blank as he tried to figure out what was going on, but then he blinked. "We've missed something, haven't we?" he asked.

Max nodded. "I think so," she agreed.

Completely at ease, Irene stepped back from Sherlock. "Please, sit down," she told them. "Oh, if you'd like some tea I can call the maid."

Sherlock shook his head. "I had some at the Palace," he said.

Irene smiled, sitting down in an armchair. "I know," she replied.

Sherlock scoffed. "Clearly," he replied.

John glanced questioningly at Max, who just shrugged. The two of them sat down on another couch, and John placed the bowl of water carefully on the coffee table.

Nobody seemed inclined to say anything; Sherlock and Irene just stared at each other silently, mentally assessing the other, while Max and John were sitting there awkwardly, not exactly sure what to do.

"I had tea, too," John declared suddenly. "At the Palace. If anyone's interested."

It didn't seem like anybody was.

Max frowned as she watched Sherlock, who was looking at Irene, his brows furrowed in confusion. He glanced at John briefly, deducing what he could, then turned back to Irene. Still seeming confused, he turned his gaze to Max. She tried to catch his eye to ask him what exactly was going on here, but he didn't seem interested; instead, he focused back on Irene, his eyes fixing on her this time. He frowned after a moment, and Max realized what the problem was. He couldn't deduce Irene.

Well, naturally. She was completely naked. There was nothing _to_ deduce.

Without meaning to, Max thought back to the expression on Sherlock's face when she and John had walked into the room. He had been staring up at Irene with a mix of shock and intrigue, beyond the usual interest that he afforded to his cases. She had a feeling that now this was something more than just a normal case to him... and it had something to do with Irene, with how she seemed to be two steps ahead of them.

He was getting sidetracked. And considering who their employer was, that was a bad thing.

Without meaning to, Max scowled in annoyance. They had a task- they had a _plan-_ and Sherlock was going completely off the rails- not to mention he had barely even looked at her and John besides to check his deduction skills. Even now, when she was desperately trying to get his attention, he was staring intently at Irene, as if Max and John didn't even exist.

"D'you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" Irene mused. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."

Sherlock scoffed. "You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?" he asked.

Max rolled her eyes. "Don't be stupid," she snapped before she could think about it, her tone coming out sharper than she intended.

Everyone looked at her oddly- Sherlock in particular, probably because the only person who had ever called him stupid was his brother- and Max blinked in surprise. "Uh, sorry," she said. "It's just... symbolism, Sherlock. Your cut means that you're damaged, and by pretending to be a vicar, that means that you believe in a higher power-"

"Which is yourself, clearly," Irene interrupted. "And you mustn't forget delusional, though that may just be my personal opinion on religion." She smiled at Max. "Perhaps I underestimated you, Max. I'm impressed." Max bristled.

Irene turned her attention back to Sherlock. "And also _somebody_ loves you," she continued. "Why, if _I_ had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." She glanced at John, raising an eyebrow.

John forced a laugh, clearly uncomfortable. "Could you put something on, please?" he asked. "Er, anything at all." He glanced at what he had at hand and took the napkin from Max, holding it out to Irene. "A napkin."

Irene smiled at him. "Why?" she asked. "Are you feeling exposed?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I don't think John knows where to look," he commented.

He stood and held up his coat for Irene to slip into- keeping his gaze safely adverted from her body- but she just smiled at John. "No, I think he knows _exactly_ where," she said. She turned back to Sherlock and took the coat from him. "I'm not sure about _you._ "

Max grimaced as Irene slipped into the coat. _Focus, Sherlock,_ she thought angrily, glaring at him as if that would make him hear her thoughts. _Let's get the photographs and get out of here._

But then another stray thought formed in her mind, one that had nothing to do with the case: _Sherlock never gave me his jacket._

She shook her head to clear it. That was ridiculous. _She_ had never walked around naked. And besides, it wasn't like she and Sherlock were dating. He was perfectly in his rights to do... whatever he was doing with Irene, but for some reason that just made Max scowl and cross her arms in annoyance.

"If I wanted to look at naked women I'd borrow John's laptop," Sherlock told Irene, scowling.

John gave him a look. "You _do_ borrow my laptop," he pointed out.

Sherlock shook his head as he began pacing in front of the fireplace. "I _confiscate_ it," he corrected.

Irene waved a hand dismissively. "Well, never mind," she said. "We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me- I need to know." She sat down on the sofa that Sherlock had just vacated. "How was it done?"

Sherlock frowned. "What?" he asked.

Irene looked at him as if it should have been obvious. "The hiker with the bashed-in head," she clarified. "How was he killed?"

For a moment Sherlock was quiet, but then he shook his head. "That's not why I'm here," he said.

That just caused Irene to roll her eyes. "No, no, no, you're here for the photographs but that's never gonna happen," she told him. Max scowled. "And since we're here just chatting anyway..."

John frowned at her. "That story's not been on the news yet," he reminded her. "How do you know about it?"

Irene smiled. "I know one of the policemen," she said. "Well, I know what he _likes._ "

Max scoffed. "Was it Carter?" she asked. "I bet it was Carter. Or maybe Anderson. My money's on Anderson."

But everyone ignored her, and John stood up, sitting down next to Irene instead of Max. Max looked at him in disbelief, but he wasn't paying attention to her at the moment. "And you like policemen?" he asked.

Max scowled at him. "John," she hissed. " _You have a girlfriend._ Sarah, remember her?"

Irene waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, don't worry," she said. "What Sarah doesn't know won't hurt her." She turned back to John, smiling slightly. "I like detective stories- _and_ detectives. Brainy's the new sexy."

 _Oh my God,_ Max thought. _I can't believe this._

"Positionofthecar-" Sherlock started incoherently.

The three of them stared at him in confusion, and Sherlock took a deep breath to pull himself together. "Er, the position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire," he told them. "That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That's all you need to know."

Irene nodded. "Okay, tell me," she said. "How was he murdered?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He wasn't," he answered.

Irene raised an eyebrow. "You don't think it was murder?" she asked.

Sherlock smirked. "I know it wasn't," he said confidently.

She gave him a look. "How?" she wanted to know.

He shrugged. "The same way that I know that victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room," he told her.

Irene blinked. "Okay, but how?" she asked.

Sherlock smirked. "So they _are_ in this room," he said. Max sighed in relief. _Finally, back to business._ "Thank you. Max, John, man the door. Let no one in."

The three of them shared a look, and John nodded and headed out of the room. Max knew that this was the plan, but she hesitated anyway. "Are you sure?" she asked.

Sherlock gave her a small smile, but he was already turning his attention to Irene. "Don't worry, Max," he said. "I'll be fine."

Even though she didn't like it, she followed John outside, closing the door behind her.


	27. A Splash of Color

As soon as the door to the sitting room swung closed, Max and John glanced around to see if anybody was in the hallway. "It's clear," John said. "C'mon, quickly. We know what we have to do."

Max nodded and grabbed a magazine from a nearby table, rolling it up. She glanced over her shoulder at the door, frowning slightly. "I don't like leaving Sherlock in there alone," she told him. "Not with _her._ Did you see how _she_ was looking at _him_? And how _he_ was looking at _her_?!"

John took out the lighter that they had taken from Harry back at the palace. "He can handle himself," he replied. They shared a look, and John opened the lighter. "Ready?"

"Ready," Max replied.

000

Meanwhile, Sherlock and Irene were still in the sitting room. Irene was sitting up straighter now, casting suspicious looks at the closed door, but Sherlock didn't comment. "Two men alone in the countryside," he said. "Several yards apart, and one car."

Irene blinked in confusion. "Oh, I- I thought you were looking for the photos now," she told him.

Sherlock scoffed. "No, no," he replied. "Looking takes ages. I'm just going to find them. But you're moderately clever and we've got a moment, so let's pass the time."

He turned to face her, but he wasn't looking at her; in his mind he was picturing the field of the crime, frozen in time. Phil was seated in his car, scowling in annoyance and about to slam his hands down onto the steering wheel in frustration. "The driver's trying to fix his engine," Sherlock said. "Getting nowhere."

Out across the field, the hiker was standing by the stream. "And the hiker's taking a moment, looking at the sky," he continued. In his mind's eye, Sherlock was walking around the hiker, observing him. "Watching the birds?" He scoffed. "Any moment now, something's gonna happen. What?"

"The hiker's going to die," Irene said.

Sherlock turned around and saw Irene there, sitting on her sofa. She was there too; she was picturing this scene in her mind, just as he was describing it. "No, that's the result," he told her. "What's going to _happen?_ "

Irene frowned. "I don't understand," she replied.

He scowled. "Oh, well, try to," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why?" she asked.

Sherlock scoffed. "Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression," he snapped. "Stop boring me and think." He gave her a look. "It's the new sexy."

Irene was silent for a moment as she tried to figure it out. "The car's going to backfire," she finally said.

He nodded. "There's going to be a loud noise," he added.

She gave him a look. "So what?" she asked.

Sherlock smiled. "Oh, noises are important," he told her. "Noises can tell you everything. For instance..."

And then they were back in the sitting room, the mental image broken by the sound of a smoke alarm.

000

Of course, there wasn't actually a fire. Outside the room, Max was sitting on John's shoulders, holding the flaming magazine up to the smoke detector. Smoke rolled off of it, drifting towards the detector. "Since when did you get so heavy?!" John demanded, stumbling back and forth as he tried to stay still while balancing her weight.

Max shot a poisonous glare down at him. "None of your business!" she exclaimed. "Stay still, will you?!"

000

Back in the sitting room, Irene glanced at the large mirror over the fireplace as the smoke alarm rang shrilly. Sherlock followed her gaze, and he smiled slightly. "Thank you," he said dryly. "On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities." He walked over to the fireplace and ran his hand underneath the mantelpiece. With deft motions, he located the switch and flicked it; instantly, the mirror slid upwards, revealing a small wall safe.

They had found it.

Irene stood up in alarm, and Sherlock smirked at her. " _Really_ hope you don't have a baby in here," he remarked dryly. His gaze turned to the door. "Alright, John, you can turn it off."

No response.

000

"I _said_ you can turn it off now!" Max heard Sherlock shout, clearly annoyed.

Max and John shared a look. Having successfully triggered the fire alarm, Max was off of John's shoulders, and the two of them were still in the hallway. "Uh, we heard you the first time!" Max shouted. "Give us a minute!"

They turned to look at the magazine in Max's hands, which was still on fire despite their multiple attempts to extinguish it. "It won't go out!" Max hissed. "What should we do?!"

John scowled. "I don't know!" he exclaimed. He took the magazine from her and started thwacking it on the table, but that just caused sparks to fly up.

Before they could brainstorm another method, Max heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. They both turned to see three armed men, the first of which raised his pistol and fired it at the smoke alarm, silencing it. The other two men hurried up to Max and John, holding a pistol to each of them. John instantly raised his hands, and Max followed his lead. "I'm getting _way_ too used to this," Max grumbled.

"Thank you," John said. The men- and Max- looked at him strangely, and he gestured up to the smoke alarm. "For the... uh... never mind."

Max glared at the three men. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What do you want?"

The first man smiled at her, but it didn't reach his eyes. "My name is Agent Neilson," he said. "And I want Irene Adler."

Of course he did.

000

Sherlock stood in front of the safe, examining the number pad. "Hmm," he mused. "Should always use gloves with these things, y'know. Heaviest oil deposit's always on the first key used- that's quite clearly a three- but after that the sequence is almost impossible to read. I'd say from the make that it's a six digit code. Can't be your birthday- no disrespect but you were clearly born in the eighties. The eight's barely used, so..."

Irene smirked. "I'd tell you the code right now but y'know what?" she said. "I already have." Sherlock frowned in confusion, and she smiled at him. " _Think."_

Suddenly the door to the room burst open, and an armed man came in, aiming his pistol at Sherlock. "Hands behind your head!" he ordered. He nodded to Irene. "On the floor. Keep it still."

Two other men came in, herding Max and John in front of them, and one of the men nudged Irene closer to them. "Sorry, Sherlock," John said.

Neilson turned to Irene as Sherlock raised his hands. "Ms. Adler, on the floor," he ordered. His colleague pushed Irene to her knees beside Max and John, both of whom were on their knees too. John had been forced to double over so that his face was on the ground, his hands behind his head and a pistol to his neck. Max looked at him in concern, but he shook his head at her. _Don't do anything,_ he seemed to be saying. Max grimaced, but she nodded.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Don't you want me on the floor too?" he asked dryly.

Neilson glared at him. "No, sir, I want you to open the safe," he answered.

But Sherlock didn't seem to be concerned with that at the moment. "American," he commented. "Interesting. Why would _you_ care?"

Neilson gave him a look. "Sir, the safe, _now_ , please," he said.

Sherlock scowled. "I don't know the code," he replied.

Neilson scowled back at him. "We've been listening," he told him. "She said she told you."

That just caused Sherlock to scoff. "Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she _didn't,_ " he said sharply.

Neilson gave him a look. "I'm assuming I missed something," he replied. "From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Mr. Holmes."

"For God's sake!" John exclaimed. " _She's_ the one who knows the code! Ask _her!"_

Neilson scoffed. "Yes, and she also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm," he agreed. "I've learned not to trust this woman."

Max frowned up at them from where she was kneeling on the ground. "Sherlock doesn't know," she said. "He's not lying, I can tell." Sherlock looked at her gratefully, but she stubbornly didn't look at him, still angry.

Irene nodded. "She's right," she agreed. "Mr. Holmes doesn't-"

" _Shut up,_ " Neilson interrupted. "One more word out of you- just one- and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship."

Nobody said anything for a moment, just stared at Neilson in surprise. Then Neilson nodded to the man standing by John. "Mr. Archer," he said. "At the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson."

"What?!" John exclaimed.

Max scowled at them. "I swear, if you touch him-" she started.

"I don't have the code," Sherlock said.

Ignoring them, the man behind John- Archer- pressed the muzzle of his pistol to the back of John's neck. "One," Neilson said.

Sherlock frowned. "I don't know the code," he insisted.

"Two," Neilson continued.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "She didn't tell me!" he exclaimed. " _I don't know it!"_

Neilson nodded. "I'm prepared to believe you any second now," he said.

Max glared at him. "After you shoot John!" she protested.

But Neilson acted as though she hadn't said anything. "Three," he said.

"No, stop!" Sherlock exclaimed.

Neilson held up his hand, and Archer lowered his gun. John sighed in relief, and Max gave him a small smile.

Sherlock stopped in front of the safe, looking down at the number pad. He paused for a moment, then started punching in numbers, glancing at Irene now and then.

And the safe unlocked.

Irene smiled slightly, her eyes shining in satisfaction. Max looked between the two of them in confusion, trying to figure out what her smile meant, but there was no time to think more on it as Neilson stepped forward. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Open it, please."

Sherlock reached out to open the door, but before he pulled it open he glanced at Irene. The two of them shared a weighted look, information passing between them wordlessly, and Max and John watched the two of them in confusion; then Sherlock turned back to the safe. Max held her breath, waiting for him to open the door.

" _Vatican cameos,_ " Sherlock suddenly said.

Max blinked in confusion. "What?" she asked.

But she had barely finished the word before John threw himself over her, pushing her to the ground and covering her with his body. Sherlock pulled open the door of the safe as he ducked down below the fireplace.

Max wasn't exactly sure what happened next; for one thing, John was on top of her, so she couldn't see much, but also it happened so quickly that it was over before she realized what was going on. All she knew was that a gun emerged from the safe- probably a trap, knowing Irene- and fired. It just so happened that Archer was directly in the line of fire, and he fell to the ground as he was shot in the chest. In the following few seconds, Sherlock had managed to knock Neilson unconscious, and Irene had stolen her guard's gun and knocked him to the floor, aiming the gun at him.

"D'you mind?" Sherlock asked.

Irene smiled slightly. "Not at all," she replied. Without further ado, she slammed the gun across his face, knocking him out.

John got to his feet, pulling Max to her feet as he did. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Max looked down at Archer. "Fine," she replied. "Is he...?"

He knelt down by his side, taking his pulse. "Yeah," he said. "He's dead." He got to his feet, turning angrily to Sherlock. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "What was what?" he asked. With a deft movement, he slipped something into his pocket; Max frowned, looking back and forth between him and the open safe. _Did he...?_

"Vatican cameos?!" John exclaimed. " _Vatican cameos?!_ "

Sherlock frowned. "John, what-?" he started.

" _Max doesn't know military code, Sherlock!_ " John shouted. " _She didn't know what to do!"_ Realization dawned on Sherlock's face, but John wasn't done. "What would have happened if I didn't tackle her?! _That bullet,_ " he pointed angrily to Archer's dead body, "might have hit her! Did you think about that?!"

Max sighed wearily. "John, please, don't make this a big deal," she said. "I'm still here. It's fine."

John scowled. "Well, it is a big deal!" he exclaimed.

Sherlock looked at Max, for once seeming lost for words. "I..." he trailed off. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

John's expression darkened. "Yeah," he agreed bitterly. "You _forgot._ "

"Thank you," Irene interrupted suddenly. They all turned from to see that she was addressing Sherlock. "You were very observant."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Observant?" she repeated.

Irene smiled slightly. "I'm flattered," she told Sherlock.

But Sherlock just scoffed, still appearing troubled. "Don't be," he snapped.

John frowned. "Flattered?" he asked.

"There'll be more of them," Sherlock said suddenly. Holding Neilson's pistol, he turned and walked out of the room. John grabbed the pistol in Archer's holster and followed him out.

Max glanced over her shoulder back into the room, where Irene was looking into the safe, her eyes wide in horror; she knew that Sherlock had stolen her photographs. Max hesitated for a moment, then continued on her way out of the room.

"We should call the police," John was telling Sherlock as she joined them; they were standing outside the house by the street. Despite all the craziness that had just taken place in Irene's sitting room, everything was calm, untouched by what had just happened.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he agreed. With that, he pointed the pistol at the sky and fired multiple times. Nearby, they heard car tires screech loudly. Max flinched, and John sighed. "On their way."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Was that really necessary?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It's quick," he said simply.

John groaned. "For God's sake!" he exclaimed, then turned and walked back inside.

Sherlock and Max stayed outside for a moment, neither of them saying anything. Then Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "About the Vatican cameos."

Max looked at him silently for a moment, thinking back on everything that had happened in the sitting room. She wasn't angry, oddly enough, or disappointed even. No, she was... sad.

Looking at him now, she couldn't imagine how she thought she would have a chance with him. She had seen him with Irene, the wordless connection that they seemed to have, and she knew that Sherlock would never have that type of connection with her. She would never be able to keep up with him, and she realized that now.

She forced a smile, shaking her head. "Don't worry about it," she told him. "I'm not mad. It was a mistake. Let's just move on, shall we?" She chuckled. "Y'know, back in the cab when you said we were gonna add a splash of color to this whole situation, I didn't realize how colorful things were gonna get."

Sherlock frowned. "Max-" he started, but she was already walking back inside.

They reconvened in the sitting room, where Irene was still sitting. Max was partially surprised that Irene hadn't made a great escape, but then she couldn't exactly leave when Sherlock had her photographs. "Check the rest of the house, see how they got in," Sherlock told John. "Go with him, Max."

John nodded and headed out to the room, but Max hesitated. "Be careful," she said quietly. "She knows you have the photographs."

Sherlock smirked slightly, then nodded. She continued on her way out of the room, and Sherlock's gaze followed her for a moment, concern clear in his eyes.

Then he turned to Irene, taking out the phone that he had stolen from the safe and flipping it into the air, then catching it again. "Well, that's the knighthood in the bag," he remarked.

Irene forced a smile, holding out her hand. "Ah," she said. "And that's mine."

Ignoring her, Sherlock powered on the phone, looking at the lock screen. _I AM _ _ _ _ LOCKED,_ it read. "All the photographs are here, I presume," he commented.

She shrugged, as if she couldn't possibly care less. "I have copies, of course," she told him.

He scoffed. "No you don't," he replied. "You'll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection; unless the contents of this phone are provably unique, you wouldn't be able to sell them."

Irene lowered her hand. "Who said I'm selling?" she asked.

Sherlock gestured towards the unconscious agents on the floor. "Well, why would _they_ be interested?" he challenged. "Whatever's on the phone, it's clearly not just photographs."

She gave him a look, her expression one of practiced indifference. "That camera phone is my life, Mr. Holmes," she said. "I'd die before I let you take it. It's my protection."

"Sherlock!" John called from upstairs.

At the sound of his name, Sherlock started backing up towards the door, holding the phone up in his hand. "It _was,_ " he told her. Then he turned around and walked out of the room.

Irene didn't even hesitate before running after him.

000

"Oh my God," Max muttered. "Is she...?"

John knelt down next to the maid who had opened the door for them, who was currently sprawled out on the floor of the bedroom. He put his ear to her mouth, checking for her breathing, then looked up at Max. "She's alive, don't worry," he told her. "Neilson and his team must have come in this way."

Max nodded. "I'll look around," she said. "Just... make sure she's okay."

With that, she turned away and looked around the room. Seeing an ajar door, she opened it and walked in. It was a bathroom... and the window was open.

"Huh," she muttered. "There it is."

She turned around and headed back into the bedroom just as Sherlock walked in, followed closely by Irene. "They came in through here," she said. Sherlock nodded to her and walked into the bathroom to examine it. Irene, meanwhile, walked over to where John was examining the maid.

"It's alright," John told her. "She's just out cold."

Irene chuckled slightly. "Well, God knows she's used to that," she replied. She looked from John to Max and back again. "There's a back door. You two had better check it."

Over Irene's shoulder, Max saw Sherlock walk back into the room. He nodded to her and John, signalling that they should do as Irene said. "Sure," John agreed. "C'mon, Max."

Max nodded. "Right," she agreed. The two of them headed out of the room, leaving Sherlock and Irene alone again.

"Are you sure you're okay?" John asked quietly. "About earlier?"

She gave him a look. "John, please," she said. "I'm fine. Stop worrying about it. And don't be mad at him."

John frowned. "I just can't believe that he _forgot,_ " he grumbled. "He never _forgets._ "

Max scoffed. "It's because of Irene," she told him. "He hasn't thought of anything else since she walked into that room naked... and that includes us."

Maybe her tone was more bitter than she had intended, because John looked at her with something like pity in his eyes. "Max, I-" he started.

"Just don't be mad at him, okay?" Max interrupted. "Please? I'm not upset, really."

He frowned, but still he nodded. "Alright," he agreed. "If you want me to beat him up just give the word."

Max grinned. "I'll keep that in mind," she laughed. The smile slid off of her face, and she looked at him seriously. "Thanks, John. Really."

John gave her a small smile and clapped her on the shoulder. "No problem," he replied. "Anything you need." He cleared his throat. "Well, we'd better go on and check that back door."

She nodded. "Right," she agreed. "Let's go."

000

Back in the bedroom, Sherlock had taken out the camera phone again, examining it closely... close enough that he didn't even notice as Irene slipped a syringe out of a draw on the dressing table. "You're very calm," he commented. Irene looked at him blankly, and he smirked slightly. "Well, your booby trap did just kill a man."

She shrugged, slowly walking closer to him. "He would have killed me," she replied. "It was self defense in advance."

By this point she had reached Sherlock, and she ran her hand down his left arm. Sherlock let his eyes follow her hand, and then-

He gasped in pain when he felt her stab a syringe into his other arm, and he stumbled backwards. "What is that?" he demanded. "What-?"

Suddenly she slapped him hard, sending him falling to the floor. She stood over him, eyes flaring angrily. "Give it to me," she growled. "Now. Give it to me."

Sherlock felt his vision going fuzzy, but still he attempted to get back to his feet. "No," he managed to say. "No."

Irene sighed. "Oh, for goodness' sake," she muttered. She picked up her riding crop from the dressing table and wielded it at him. "Drop it." He clutched the phone tighter.

There was a sharp pain in his face as she thrashed him with the whip. "I said, _drop it,_ " she hissed. She thrashed him again, and the phone tumbled out of his grasp.

She smiled as she picked up the phone. "Ah," she commented. "Thank you, dear." She got to her feet, looking down at him as he still struggled to get to his feet. "Now, tell that sweet little posh thing the pictures are safe with me. They're not for blackmail, just insurance." She smiled slightly as she slipped the phone into her pocket- no, Sherlock's coat pocket, which she was still wearing. "Besides, I might want to see her again."

Still dazed, Sherlock tried to get back to his feet, but Irene pushed him back down with one foot at the end of her whip. "Oh, no, no," she said. "It's been a pleasure. Don't spoil it." She stroked the whip against his face, gently. "This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you." She smiled. "Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

It was at that moment that Max and John came back, and they both paused when they took in the scene in front of them. "Jesus," John muttered.

"What did you do to him?" Max demanded angrily.

Irene waved a hand dismissively. "He'll sleep for a few hours," she told them. "Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse." She headed to the bathroom casually, as if this was perfectly normal.

Max knelt to the floor beside Sherlock, brushing the hair out of his face in a futile attempt to do _something_ helpful, and John examined the syringe lying on the floor. "What's this?" he snapped. "What have you given him?"

Irene shrugged. "He'll be fine," she reassured him. "I've used it on loads of my friends." She looked down at him, seeming almost... _tender._ "Y'know, I was wrong about him. He _did_ know where to look."

John looked at her oddly. "For what?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

Irene smiled. "The key code to my safe," she answered. She looked down at Sherlock, still unable to speak. "Shall I tell him?" Without waiting for an answer- she wasn't going to get one, anyway- she turned back to John. "My measurements."

 _My measurements._

Just when Max had thought this couldn't get any worse. Sherlock had noticed Irene's measurements.

Irene turned to Max, backing up into the bathroom as she did. "Take care of yourself, Max," she said. "I like you, y'know. You have potential." She smiled. "And tell Mr. Holmes I'll be in touch."

And then she pushed herself out the bathroom window.

John hurried over, as if he could catch her, but Max knew that she was gone. Her last words echoed through Max's head, and suddenly she felt a pit in her stomach.

Max didn't have to be a genius to know that nothing would be the same from here on.


	28. Lipstick Marks and Text Alerts

"Got it!"

Sherlock frowned, looking at his surroundings. Somehow he was back at the crime scene where Phil's car had backfired, sitting in the driver's seat of said car... even though he had no memory of getting here. He had a pounding headache, but he pushed it aside and tried to figure out what was going on.

He shook his head to clear it and turned to get out of the car, but suddenly Irene of all people was standing there, holding up a finger at him. "Oh, shush now," she said. "Don't get up. I'll do the talking."

Not exactly sure what to say, Sherlock watched as Irene walked around to the rear of the car, bending down to look at the exhaust pipe. "So the car's about to backfire," she mused. Suddenly their surroundings changed, and they were standing next to the man by the river, who was staring up at the sky. "And the hiker, he's staring at the sky. Now, you said he could be watching birds, but he wasn't, was he? He was watching another kind of flying thing. The car backfires and the hiker turns to look..."

As Sherlock watched, the hiker turned to look at the car, just as some object came flying in so fast the he could barely see it. It hit him in the back of the head, then bounced off and skimmed away, but the damage was already done; the hiker fell backwards to the ground, and for a moment Sherlock could have sworn that he was falling with him, falling to Irene's floor. But then he was back at the crime scene, standing with Irene as the two of them stared down at the hiker's dead body on the ground.

"... which was his big mistake," Irene declared.

She looked back to the road and Phil's car. "By the time the driver looks up, the hiker's already dead," she said. "What he doesn't see is what killed him because it's already being washed downstream."

In his mind's eye, Sherlock saw the object that had killed the hiker drifting downstream: a boomerang.

"An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel with.. a boomerang," Irene declared. She turned and smiled at him. "You got that from one look? _Definitely_ the new sexy."

Sherlock blinked, still too confused to form a coherent thought. "I..." he trailed off.

Behind him, a bed rose up out of the ground to meet him, and then suddenly he was horizontal to the ground, laying on the bed as a sheet rose up to wrap around him. Despite his best efforts he felt his eyes begin to close from exhaustion.

"Hush now," Irene said. She was leaning over him suddenly, and from his fuzzy view of her, Sherlock could make out that they were no longer in a field, but in a room. "It's okay. I'm only returning your coat."

She leaned closer to him, almost as if she were going to kiss him... but then suddenly she faded away, as if she had never been there at all.

000

Sherlock suddenly jerked into consciousness. It took him a moment to get his bearings, but then he realized that he was back in his bedroom, fully clothed and covered with a sheet.

"John?" he called. "Max?" No response. " _John!"_

When nobody replied, he threw back the sheet and attempted to sit up... only to lose his balance, falling forward onto the floor. He had just managed to sit up when John and Max walked into the room. "You okay?" John asked.

Sherlock scowled. "How did I get here?" he demanded.

Max raised an eyebrow. "How did you get on the floor?" she asked. "Don't look at us, we left you on the bed. That's all you."

He gave her a look. "No, in my room!" he exclaimed.

John shrugged. "Well, I don't suppose you remember much," he said. "You weren't making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you: I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone."

But none of that seemed to bother Sherlock as he struggled to his feet. After a moment Max walked over and helped him up. "Where is she?" he wanted to know.

John blinked. "Where's who?" he asked. "Max? She's right there."

Sherlock glared at him. "No, not Max," he said. He pulled away from Max and stumbled aimlessly around the room, not exactly sure what he was looking for. "The woman! _That_ woman! The _woman_ woman!"

It didn't seem like John knew what he was talking about, but Max did, grimacing slightly. "He's talking about Irene," she told him.

John blinked. "Oh," he said. "She got away. No one saw her." Ignoring his words, Sherlock stumbled over to the open window and looked through it. "She wasn't here, Sherlock."

Before either of them realized what he was doing, Sherlock deliberately dropped to the floor, peering under the bed as if to check if Irene was there. When he couldn't find anything, he started crawling over to the wardrobe.

"What are you... What?" John asked. "No, no, no, no." He walked over, and with Max's help the two of them were able to haul Sherlock back over to the bed.

But Sherlock started struggling, trying to go back to the wardrobe. "Sherlock, _please,_ just get back to bed _,_ will you?" Max pleaded, struggling to not drop him. "Whatever you think you have to do can wait until tomorrow."

Eventually they managed to get him over to the bed, plopping him down face-first. "Back to bed," John said. "You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep."

Sherlock groaned. "Of course I'll be fine," he mumbled. "I _am_ fine. I'm absolutely fine."

John nodded. "Yes, you're great," he agreed passively. "Now, we'll be next door if you need us."

Sherlock looked up at them blearily. "Why would I need you?" he mumbled.

John flipped him over on his back and pulled the covers back over him. "No reason at all," he said.

Satisfied that Sherlock was taken care of, John headed out of the room. Max was about to follow him, but then Sherlock called out to her. "Max," he said.

She paused by the door, looking back at Sherlock. "Yeah?" she asked.

He frowned. "Uh... the case with the hiker and the backfire," he stated. "Do you know how he was killed?"

Max looked at him oddly. "The case with... No, I don't," she replied. "Why?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No reason," he said.

She turned to go, but then she paused again. "Uh... by the way, you have something on your cheek," she told him.

Before Sherlock could reply, she walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

 _Something on his cheek...?_

Still slightly off-balance, Sherlock stumbled to his feet and headed towards the door, intent on going to the bathroom to see what was on his cheek. But he had just reached the door when he realized that his coat was hanging on the back of the door.

The coat he had given to Irene.

Filled with a new sense of urgency, Sherlock started patting down the coat. His hand closed around something in one of the pockets, and he pulled it out to see that it was his phone.

Bracing himself against the wall, he powered up the phone to see that he had a new text message. It was from a private number, but Sherlock had a feeling that he knew who it was.

 _Till the next time, Mr. Holmes_ , it read.

Irene.

Sherlock looked at the phone for a moment, eyeing it suspiciously, but then he remembered what Max had said about his cheek. He held up his phone so that he could see his face reflected in the screen... and he saw what Max had been talking about.

A lipstick mark.

He lowered his phone, staring blankly out at his room. He was certain that Irene had been here... and he was equally certain that no matter how hard he looked, he would never find her.

000

Meanwhile, Max and John were sitting at the dining room table, each of them holding a cup of tea- as usual, Max had added seven packets of sugar. Neither of them spoke, not sure what to say.

"You saw that on his cheek, right?" Max asked. "The, uh..."

John raised an eyebrow. "The lipstick mark?" he finished. She nodded, and he sighed. "Yeah. I did."

Max sighed, shaking her head. "I can't believe this," she grumbled.

He grimaced. "Me neither," he replied. "Well, hopefully we've heard the last of her." His phone suddenly beeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket. He sighed when he saw the message. "Mycroft heard about what happened. He's coming over tomorrow morning, and he wants to talk to all of us." He looked up at her. "You can stay overnight, if you want."

She shook her head. "No, I... I think I need some space," she told him. "Thank you, though. What time did he say he'll be here?"

John glanced at his phone again. "Nine," he answered. He frowned. "Look, just because things... uh... things are... uh... _different_ between you and Sherlock, that doesn't mean that you have to stay away and stuff. Just saying."

Max gave him a small smile. "Thanks, John," she said. "It's not that, honestly. I'm just... I need to clear my head, y'know?"

He nodded, even though he still looked concerned. "Alright," he agreed. He glanced at his phone again. "Well, it's almost midnight, so if you're going back to your flat you should go now."

She glanced at her own phone. "Oh, wow," she said. "Time flies when your friend is recovering from being poisoned, huh?" They both forced a small laugh, and Max stood up. "Call me if he gets worse."

John got to his feet too, and they hugged quickly. "I will," he promised. "See you tomorrow."

Max smiled as she stepped away. "See you," she replied. She grabbed her jacket from where it was draped over the couch, then gave John a small smile before walking out of the flat, closing the door behind her.

000

By 9:00 the next morning, Mycroft and Max had both arrived at the Baker St flat. Sherlock seemed to be back to normal; he was sitting at the dining table, reading a newspaper. John was sitting across from him, still eating his breakfast. Max sat on the couch, angling her body so that she was facing the dining table, and Mycroft stood nearby.

After staying up last night to drown her sorrows in binging a new TV show and eating a lot of ice cream, Max was feeling better about everything that had happened yesterday. She wasn't quite back to normal yet, but at the very least she was ready to face the situation with a clear head... which was beginning to get more and more muddled the longer Sherlock and Mycroft bickered back and forth.

"The photographs are perfectly safe," Sherlock said.

Mycroft scoffed. "In the hands of a fugitive sex worker," he agreed sarcastically.

Sherlock shook his head. "She's not interested in blackmail," he explained. "She wants... protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into shooting at her house?"

Max gave him a look. "He has to," she said. "He doesn't have a choice, not while she has the photographs."

Mycroft nodded. "Exactly, Ms. Arthur," he told her. "Our hands are tied."

Sherlock smirked. "She'd applaud your choice of words," he commented. Nobody laughed, and Sherlock sighed. "You see how this works; that camera phone is her 'get out of jail free' card. You have to leave her alone." He gave his brother a look. "Treat her like royalty, Mycroft."

John scoffed. "Though not the way _she_ treats royalty," he commented dryly. Max snorted, and Mycroft smiled humorlessly.

Suddenly there was the sound of a lewd female sigh, and everyone shared a look. "What was that?" John asked in confusion.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, trying not to make eye contact with any of them. "Text," he answered.

John scowled at him. "But what was that _noise?"_ he insisted.

Trying to act nonchalant about the situation, Sherlock pulled out his phone and looked at the message. _Good morning, Mr. Holmes,_ it read.

There was only one person that could be.

"Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent the three of us in there?" Sherlock asked. "CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess."

John gave Mycroft a look. "Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft," he agreed sarcastically. "Max could have died."

Mycroft looked at her in concern, and Max sighed. "I'm fine, really," she said. "Don't worry about it. John's overreacting."

Mrs. Hudson walked into the flat, bringing in a plate of breakfast and putting it in front of Sherlock. "It's a disgrace, sending your little brother and his friends into danger like that," she scolded Mycroft. "Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."

That just caused Mycroft to scoff. "Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson," he snapped.

Instantly, three sets of furious eyes were on him. " _Mycroft!"_ Sherlock admonished.

" _Oi!"_ John added indignantly.

Max gave Mycroft a stern look. "You might want to apologize," she said. " _Now._ "

Mycroft looked at the three of them, clearly taken aback by the violence of their reactions, then cringed and turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Apologies," he told her.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, still seeming miffed. "Thank you," she replied.

Sherlock gave him a look. "Though do, in fact, shut up," he said.

Suddenly Sherlock's phone moaned again, and Mrs. Hudson gave him a look as she headed back to the kitchen. "Ooh, it's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" she asked.

Max and John shared a look as Sherlock checked his phone again. _Feeling better?_ the text asked.

"There's nothing you can do and nothing she _will_ do as far as I can see," Sherlock said, sliding his phone away.

Mycroft scowled. "I can put maximum surveillance on her," he volunteered.

Sherlock scoffed. "Why bother?" he retorted. "You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her username is _TheWhipHand._ "

Max raised an eyebrow. "You _looked her up?_ " she asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "It was research," he replied.

Before Max could reply, Mycroft's phone rang, and he slipped it from his pocket. "'Scuse me," he said, walking out of the room. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously as the door closed behind him.

"Why does your phone make that noise?" John suddenly asked.

Sherlock blinked. "What noise?" he replied, seeming genuinely confused.

John gave him a look. " _That_ noise- the one it just made," he clarified.

Sherlock shrugged. "It's a text alert," he replied. "It means I've got a text."

Max raised an eyebrow. "And your texts always moan like that?" she asked doubtfully.

Sherlock grimaced. "Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalized their text alert noise," he told them.

John and Max shared a look. "So every time they text you-" John started.

As if on cue, Sherlock's phone sighed again.

Sherlock grimaced. "It would seem so," he agreed.

"Could you turn that phone down a bit?" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen. "At my time of life, it's..."

Max grimaced. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson," she agreed. "Sherlock's on it right now."

But Sherlock wasn't paying attention to their conversation; he was reading his newest text, which read, _I'm fine since you didn't ask._

"See, though, Sherlock," Max continued. "Someone would have to have your phone to change their text alert."

John nodded. "And we're wondering who could have got hold of your phone," he added. "Because it would have been in your coat, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock just raised his newspaper so that it covered his face. "I'll leave you both to your deductions," he told them.

John gave him a look. "We're not stupid, y'know," he said.

For a moment Sherlock didn't say anything, but then he lowered his newspaper. "Where _do_ you get that idea?" he asked.

Well, he wasn't confirming it, but he wasn't outright denying it either.

Max wasn't sure what to make of that.

Before either of them could reply, Mycroft came walking back into the room, still on his phone. "Bond Air is go, that's decided," he was saying. "Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later." He hung up the phone, slipping it back into his pocket.

"What else does she have?" Sherlock asked him. Mycroft looked at him oddly. "Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs."

He stood up suddenly, walking towards Mycroft. "There's more," he stated. " _Much_ more. Something big's coming, isn't it?"

By this point Sherlock was right in Mycroft's face, but Mycroft didn't seem to mind. "Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours," he said. "From now on you will stay out of this."

Sherlock's eyes glinted dangerously. "Oh, _will_ I?" he challenged.

Mycroft glared back at him. "Yes, Sherlock, you _will_ ," he stated.

Neither of the brothers spoke for a second, seeming to be locked in some kind of staring contest, but then Max got up and put a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock, let it go," she said quietly so that only he could hear. "Let Mycroft do his job."

Sherlock scoffed. "He doesn't let me do mine," he replied, just as quietly.

Max looked up at him, eyes stern. "Then be the bigger person," she told him.

They held eye contact for a moment, something unsaid passing between them, but then Sherlock nodded and stepped back, turning away from Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded his thanks to Max, then sighed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend," he said.

Max gave him a look. "Mycroft, we all know who it is," she told him. "You really don't have to keep pretending that we don't."

Sherlock picked up his violin from its case. "Do give her my love," he added. With that, he began playing "God Save the Queen."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and left the room.

The door to the building closed a few seconds later, but Sherlock continued playing, walking over to the window and staring out as he did. Within a matter of seconds it seemed like he had forgotten that they were there.

Max sat down at the dining table, and neither she nor John spoke. Now that Mycroft was gone, John had returned his attention to his breakfast, and Max found herself watching Sherlock as he played.

She hadn't realized how much she had fancied him until now, when she realized it was over and that nothing would ever happen between them. As his music filled the quiet room, she let herself think back to yesterday, before all of this had happened and everything had felt so _right._

But it had just been her imagination. She had been an idiot for believing that it could be real.

Across the table from her, John wasn't as engrossed in his breakfast as she seemed to think that he was. He knew her well enough to guess what was on her mind: Sherlock.

Well, actually, he didn't even have to know her well enough to figure that out; she was staring right at him.

John had been Max's friend for a long time. She claimed that she was okay, that she was over it, but he knew that was just her way of ignoring the problem. In reality, she wasn't okay, and she wasn't over it. But, being Max, she would push the problem to the back of her mind and suppress it, locking it away and never taking it out again.

He had seen her do this too many times in high school, and he had stood by and let her do it. Not this time, though. Not when the problem was Sherlock.

In all honesty, John had no clue what Sherlock felt about Irene. But he had seen how Sherlock responded to Max, and even though there was no flirty, witty banter between them like with Irene, they had something there, some sort of understanding on a deeper level. John wasn't about to let them lose that, not when they both brought out the best in each other.

He had a plan to fix this. Or, at least, he had the beginning of a plan.

After all, somebody needed to step in before things got even worse.


	29. Benched

"Do you play tennis?"

Sherlock looked up from his newspaper as John sat down across from him at the dining room table. A few weeks had passed since the incident with Irene Adler, and even though Sherlock was still a bit sore, he was mostly recovered. "Why?" he asked.

John shrugged. "Well, you remember Sarah, right?" he replied. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "... The girl I'm dating?"

Sherlock nodded. "Oh, right, her," he agreed, in a tone that made it clear he still didn't remember. "What about her?"

John gave him a look, but continued on. "Well, she's been organizing this couple's tennis tournament," he said. "It's tomorrow, actually. We're playing- Sarah and I, I mean."

Sherlock turned back to his newspaper, covering his face. "Marvelous," he commented dryly. "Have fun. I'll be sitting here." John cleared his throat pointedly, and Sherlock lowered the newspaper again with an exasperated expression. "What?"

"Well, one of the couples just cancelled," John told him. "And I told Sarah I'd find a replacement. So I was wondering if you and Max would want to play."

Sherlock looked at him blankly for a moment, and John could have sworn that he heard the cogs of his brain turning. "But Max and I aren't dating," he said.

John shrugged. "It doesn't matter, really," he replied.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Does Max even play?" he asked.

John shrugged. "She dabbles," he answered. "We took lessons together when we were younger. So, are you in?"

Sherlock was silent for a second, but then he sighed. "Fine," he agreed.

000

Max was at work when her phone rang.

She glanced over and saw that it was John calling. Sighing, she reached over and answered the call, tucking the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she continued working, sketching a new logo for a client. "Hey, John, what's up?" she asked.

" _How long has it been since you've played tennis?"_ John said.

Max frowned in thought. "Uh, since I moved back," she replied. "So a few months. Why?"

" _Sarah's running a couple's tournament this weekend and they need a sub,"_ he explained. " _I volunteered you and Sherlock."_

She blinked in disbelief. "Sorry, what?" she asked.

John cleared his throat. " _I said-"_ he started.

"No, no, I heard what you said, I'm just trying to wrap my mind around it," she interrupted. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion and she suddenly stopped drawing, turning her full attention to the conversation as a thought came to her. "You're not... you're not planning something, are you?"

" _What do you mean?"_ John asked.

Max frowned. "Y'know, trying to set Sherlock and I up?" she said. "Like you used to back in school with every boy I fancied? Because I'm over it, really. I have been for a few weeks. I don't-"

" _No, it's not like that,"_ John interrupted. " _I have purely innocent intentions, I swear. So are you coming...?"_

Max bit her lip, thinking it over. Then she nodded. "Text me the address," she said.

000

The next day turned out to be a cool summer day, and the sun was shining brightly down on the tennis courts. By the time that Sherlock and John arrived at the park, it seemed like most of the other couples had already arrived. Sherlock's gaze found Max instantly; she was standing by the net at one of the courts, talking amicably to a couple there. As if she sensed him there, she glanced up and met his gaze. She smiled and, after saying something quickly to the people she was talking to, she headed over to greet them.

"John! I was wondering where you were!" Sarah exclaimed. The two men turned around to see Sarah jogging up to them, a smile on her face. "Hi, Sherlock, thanks for stepping in."

Sherlock nodded to her, his face expressionless, and John pulled her into a one-armed hug, giving her a quick kiss. "Sorry, the cab got stuck in traffic," John told her. "We're not too late, are we?"

"Well, I got here half an hour ago, but I was early," Max interrupted, finally having reached them. "Hey, guys." She glanced at Sherlock, taking in his appearance. "Uh... do you have a change of clothes?"

Sherlock frowned. "No," he replied. He glanced down at his outfit- his usual dress shirt and pants- then looked at Max. She was wearing a tank top and shorts, and her hair was tied up in a ponytail- clearly dressed for tennis. "It doesn't matter."

Max nodded, even though she still looked apprehensive. "Right," she agreed. "Okay, let's go, then." She nudged John playfully, then she and Sherlock headed off.

John waited until they were out of earshot to give Sarah a proper kiss. "Thanks for squeezing them in," he said. "I know you didn't actually need subs."

Sarah grinned at him. "It's okay," she replied. "I want them to get together just as much as you do." She threw an arm around his shoulders. "Now let's go kick some ass on the courts."

000

Meanwhile, Max had introduced Sherlock to their opponents, Rachel and Adrian. "They've been dating for four years," Max was telling Sherlock, but based on his expression it didn't seem like he particularly cared.

Rachel smiled at them. "And how about you two?" she asked. "How long have you been together?"

Max and Sherlock shared an awkward look. "Oh, we're not-" Max started.

"We're friends," Sherlock interrupted.

"Yeah, we're just subbing," Max added.

Adrian and Rachel shared a look. "Oh," Adrian said. "Right. Well, er, shall we get out there?"

Max nodded. "Yeah," she agreed. She glanced at Sherlock. "Are you ready?"

Sherlock picked up his racket from where it had been leaning against the bench. "Let's start," he agreed.

Rachel popped open the can of balls, and she and Adrian headed over to one side of the net. Max and Sherlock walked over to the other, Sherlock dragging his feet slightly. "Deuce or ad?" Max asked.

Sherlock blinked. "What?" he replied.

Max looked at him blankly. "... Right side or left side," she simplified. "You... you've played tennis before, right?"

He scoffed, as if that was a ridiculous question. "I'll take the right side," he told her, hefting his racket in his grip. Max nodded, then jogged over to the left side of the court.

On the other side of the net, Rachel bounced the ball, preparing for her serve. Max watched as she caught the ball and held it against her racket. "Love all, first serve," Rachel called.

They were all silent as Rachel took a deep breath to ready herself. Then she tossed the ball up into the air and served it over the net with simple elegance. The ball came towards Sherlock as he raised his racket in preparation for the shot. He swung...

... and he missed.

Rachel and Adrian shared a look, and Max glanced back at Sherlock. "What are you doing?" she whispered. Sherlock looked at her, almost sheepishly, and suddenly she realized the answer. "... you've never played tennis, have you."

Sherlock grimaced. "Never," he admitted.

Max blinked. "You've got to be kidding," she said. "Why did you-"

"Is everything okay over there?" Rachel called.

Max glanced over. "Yeah!" she replied. "Sorry!" She turned back to Sherlock and sighed. "We'll talk about this later."

As Max had expected, the first set was over quickly, without her and Sherlock even getting a score on the board. Max had held her own, but Sherlock had missed most of his shots, and those few that he hit either went into the net or were horribly, horribly out. Now, with the beginning of the second set, Max was preparing to return Adrian's serve.

The ball came flying over the net, and Max returned it with ease. She and Adrian hit it back and forth, baseline to baseline, falling into a comfortable rhythm as they read each other's moves. It was beginning to seem like the point was going to stretch on forever when suddenly Max stumbled over her feet. In an attempt to return the ball she flicked it up over the net, a weak return that ended up heading straight towards Rachel.

What happened next was so quick that Max wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. All she knew was that Rachel had smashed the ball back, sending it flying over the net at an impressive speed, and somehow- _somehow-_ it managed to hit Sherlock square in the face.

He went tumbling to the ground.

000

"I'm fine, really. I'm fine."

"Sherlock, your nose is bleeding."

"I said _I'm fine._ "

Max and Sherlock were sitting on the bench by the side of the court, their rackets propped up on the net. Sherlock was holding a handful of tissues to his nose to prevent the flow of blood from dripping onto his clothes, scowling out at the distance. Max's arms were crossed as she sat next to him, looking at him reproachfully out of the corner of her eyes every few moments.

"I need more tissues," Sherlock said.

Max raised an eyebrow.

He sighed. "May I have more tissues?" he amended.

Wordlessly, Max passed him her tissue pack, and he took it.

"... Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," she replied.

Neither of them spoke for a second, but then Max gave him a look. "Why did you pretend to know tennis?" she asked.

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, please, it's not like it's a hard sport," he said.

Max looked at him in disbelief. "Says the person who got hit in the face!" she exclaimed.

He scowled. "I was still warming up," he grumbled. "I would've figured it out in a few more minutes."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right," she agreed sarcastically.

They lapsed into silence, sitting there side by side under the sun. Max closed her eyes, feeling the breeze against her face and listening to the sounds around her- the gentle hum of the city traffic, the murmur of conversations blending together, the rhythmic sounds of the other tennis matches still going on. It was peaceful here, far removed from the chaos of the workplace or the dangers of Sherlock's crime scenes.

Speak of the devil, Sherlock shifted uncomfortably beside her. Max glanced over at him and saw that he was switching out his bloody tissues for new ones, dabbing at his nose in a succinct manner. He seemed to be unfazed by the injury- granted, in his line of work he probably had much worse- but she was still worried about him.

She had been upset after the whole thing with Irene- after all, she had been beginning to feel something for Sherlock, and then in just one afternoon she had realized that nothing would ever really happen between the two of them. It had been on her mind for the past few weeks, and then today, meeting Rachel and Adrian and being surrounded by all the other couples... it made her think of what she and Sherlock could have been, if only things had been different. She hadn't realized how much she had wanted that until now- how much she wanted things to be different.

But despite that, she found that it was nice to be sitting here with Sherlock, neither of them saying a word but enjoying each other's company anyway. It was alright to be just friends, she realized now. And she was glad that she was Sherlock's friend- there was never a dull moment around him, after all.

"You're not mad that we lost, are you?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Max gave him a look, torn out of her thoughts. "What?" she replied in surprise. "No! I don't care about that sort of stuff."

He adjusted the tissues on his nose, seeming slightly annoyed that he was still bleeding. "You've been quiet," he said.

She shrugged. "Just thinking," she told him. He raised an eyebrow, silently asking the question. "You wouldn't want to know. It's nothing earth-shattering. Quite mundane, actually."

Sherlock turned away, his attention already moving onto other things. She watched as his gaze went to Rachel and Adrian. The couple was sitting on the bench on the opposite side of the court, talking amicably about something or other- most likely Sherlock getting hit in the face. "He's going to propose," Sherlock commented. "I'd give it a month or two."

Max raised an eyebrow, a grin on her face. "A thirty day margin of error?" she asked teasingly. "From the great Sherlock Holmes? I never thought I'd see the day." He gave her a look, and she nudged him playfully. "Just kidding."

Sherlock scowled. "Five weeks," he grumbled. "Happy?"

She laughed. "Happy," she confirmed. "Is she going to accept? The proposal, I mean."

He glanced at Rachel, reading her in his usual manner. "No," he decided. "She's not ready to settle down."

Max nodded, accepting his answer. "Well, that sucks," she mused. She gestured to a couple playing on the court next to them. "What about them?"

Sherlock followed her gaze. "Oh, they're already married," he said. "They're going to have four kids and live happily ever after." He scowled. "How boring."

They continued to amuse themselves with people-watching, going from couple to couple- after all, they had a lot of time to kill, since their match had ended prematurely with Sherlock's bloody nose. Eventually they had gone through everyone on the courts, including John and Sarah- Sherlock was convinced that they wouldn't last much longer, and Max was inclined to agree- and now they were back to sitting in silence, watching the other matches and relaxing under the sun.

"You never answered my question," Max said suddenly.

Sherlock glanced over at her. "What question?" he asked.

She gestured to the tennis courts. "Why you pretended to... well, to know how to do all of this," she answered.

He was silent for a moment, thinking on her question. "John asked," he said simply.

Max gave him a look. "Since when do you do what John asks?" she challenged.

Sherlock scowled. "Most of the time he asks for _boring_ things," he replied.

She raised an eyebrow. "And this isn't boring?" she asked.

He scoffed. "Oh, it is," he told her. "Sports are always terribly dull. But I knew you were going to be here, and when you're here things are slightly less tedious."

She blinked. "I feel like that's a compliment, but I'm not completely sure," she said. "Was that a compliment?"

Sherlock smirked, an annoyingly smug smirk. "Oh, it is," he replied.

"Hey, Max, Sherlock, how are you two- bloody hell!"

The two of them turned around to see John there, looking at Sherlock's nose in shock. "Oh, hey Johnny boy!" Max greeted cheerfully. "How's your match going?"

But John was still hung up on Sherlock's nose, apparently. "What happened?!" he demanded. "I left the two of you alone for less than an hour-"

Sherlock scowled. "I'm _fine,"_ he said, repeating what he had been telling Max for the past few minutes.

Max shrugged. "It was pretty funny, actually," she commented. "The ball just came at him, and BAM!" She mimed getting hit in the face with a ball, then falling against the bench.

Neither of them seemed to appreciate her description.

"We're starting the third set after a quick break over there," John told them, gesturing back to his court. "We'll be done soon. Just... just don't get into any more trouble, will you?"

Max rolled her eyes. "No promises!" she called after him as he walked away.

She and Sherlock sat there in silence for a moment, but then she turned to him. "Sarah didn't need us to sub," she said. "I was talking to another couple and they told me that they were just called to play yesterday too. So they didn't actually need us."

Sherlock nodded. "John," he said in explanation.

"John," Max agreed.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, but then Max laughed. "I had fun," she said.

Sherlock glanced down at her, a hint of a smile on his face. "Me too," he replied.

She gave him a look. "But we're never doing this again," she stated.

"Oh, definitely not."


	30. Brain Freeze

A few weeks after the tennis tournament, Max was sitting on her couch and watching TV when the electricity went out with a _pop_.

She looked up at the lights, as if that would encourage them to turn back on, but it didn't. Frowning, she put down the bag of chips that she was eating and stepped out into the hallway.

The lights were out there too, and she saw her neighbors looking out, everybody holding a flashlight so that they could see in the dark. "Did your power go off too?" she asked.

"It's the whole building," somebody answered.

Grumbling under her breath, Max went back into her flat. She headed into the kitchen and started rummaging around in the draws for candles.

She was about to light the candles when she looked around the dark room, considering her options. Then, with a sigh, she grabbed her phone and her bag, and she headed out of the flat.

000

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked.

He was standing in the doorway of 221B, dressed in his pajamas, and Max was standing across from him in the hallway. "The power's out at my flat and I really don't want to be there," she said. "Can I stay for a bit?"

Sherlock stepped aside without a word, and Max walked in, where- thankfully- there was power. "Oh my God, a working television!" she exclaimed. "It's a miracle!"

He gave her a look, clearly unimpressed. "Your power hasn't even been out for a full day," he pointed out.

She scowled at him. "You're into crap telly, Sherlock, you should know how it feels," she replied. "Where's John, anyway?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not here," he said. Max looked at him oddly. "Why does it matter to me where John spends his free time?" Without waiting for a response, he turned and swept into the kitchen. "I'm working on an experiment. Don't touch anything."

Max followed after him, shooting John a quick text to ask where he was. She glanced up when she entered the kitchen. "Wasn't planning on it," she told him, looking at the severed arm laying on the kitchen table. "Err... do I want to know?"

He took a seat at the table, picking up the arm. "Probably not," he said.

Her phone beeped, and she checked it to see that John had replied. "John's spending the night at Sarah's," she announced. "He says he told you. Repeatedly."

Sherlock didn't seem particularly bothered by that. "John tells me a lot of things," he said. "Most of them are irrelevant."

She knew better than to get into this conversation with him by now. "Right," she agreed passively. Without warning, Sherlock reached under the table and pulled out a blowtorch. Max blinked. "Well, that's my cue to leave you alone with your... uh... arm," she said. "I'll be at the dining table."

Sherlock flicked on the blowtorch in response. Max backpedaled out of the room, closing the door behind her.

000

About half an hour later, Max had spread out her work on the dining table to keep herself occupied; she was working on a design for a brochure that was due by the end of the week. She was so immersed in her thoughts, she didn't even realize Sherlock had walked into the room until he sat down across from her.

She looked up in surprise. "Done already?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered shortly.

But then she smelled something in the air, something that smelled... suspiciously like burnt human flesh. She looked at Sherlock again, taking in his scowl and his crossed arms. "Accident with the blowtorch?" she guessed.

"... Yes," he admitted.

She nodded. "Right," she said. "Did you get hurt?"

He sighed. "Perfectly fine," he replied, still not seeming pleased.

Max hesitated. "And the, er, the severed arm?" she asked.

His scowl deepened, and he didn't give her a response. That was answer enough, and Max turned back to her design.

For a moment neither of them spoke, but then the silence became too much for Sherlock. "What are you working on?" he asked.

Max glanced up at him with a crooked smile. "What, you can't figure it out yourself?" she replied.

Sherlock scoffed. "I could," he answered. "But it's really not worth the effort when you can just tell me. Though, since you ask..." He stood up and walked around the table so that he was standing over her shoulder. He leaned over, his hand on the back of her chair, and she could sense the nearness of his presence, not quite touching her but standing so close.

"It's for work, that much is obvious," Sherlock mused. "Based on the size and layout, it's certainly not a logo, it might be a magazine but that's highly unlikely considering how you're only working on one page, so I'd say it's a brochure- for Pomp and Circumstance Jewelers, based on the title (horrid name, really), located in Brighton. Mystery solved." He straightened, a satisfied smirk on his face. "And I would tone it down on the royal blue color scheme- it's a tad overwhelming."

She groaned and banged her head on the table. "Ow," she muttered. "Should _not_ have done that." She sat up with a frown, rubbing her head. Sherlock looked at her oddly. "Sorry. It's just... I don't know, I think I'm in a slump. A creative slump. I need a break."

Sherlock didn't reply for a second, but then he stood up and walked away.

Startled, Max turned around in her chair and watched as Sherlock walked into the kitchen and out of sight. "Uh, Sherlock?" she called. No response. Slightly confused but knowing that she wouldn't get an answer, she turned back to her work.

A minute later, Sherlock slammed a bowl of vanilla ice cream down in front of her.

Max looked up at him in surprise. "What is this?" she asked.

He gave her a look, holding a bowl of ice cream also. "Vanilla ice cream," he said simply.

She blinked. "... you don't like to share your ice cream," she stated.

Sherlock shrugged, taking his seat across from her. "It seemed like you needed it," he explained.

A small smile on her face, Max leaned back, away from her work. Curling her legs up on the chair, she dove into the ice cream. "Mmmmm," she sighed. "You're right, I needed this. Food is the way to a girl's heart, y'know."

It was a moment before they both realized what she had said, and they paused awkwardly. "Oh, I didn't mean it like-" Max started, but then Sherlock's phone beeped- _sighed,_ really. Max knew the sound well.

Irene Adler.

Sherlock broke eye contact with her, slipping his phone out of his pocket and glancing at it. Without replying to the text, he slid it back into his pocket and turned his attention back to Max. "Did you say something?" he asked.

Max looked at him for a moment, then gave him a small smile and shook her head. "No," she said. "But thanks. For the ice cream, I mean."

He nodded. "Of course," he replied.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, but then Sherlock pulled her binder of designs towards him. Max was silent as he flipped through them, looking at each expressionlessly as his eyes flitted down the page. "They're quite good," he told her.

Max blinked in surprise; Sherlock had never taken interest in her work before, and now that he had, she hadn't expected a _compliment_. "Oh," she said. "Thanks."

He flipped to the last page, and paused, his gaze caught on something. "Did you draw this?" he asked.

She glanced over to see what he was looking at: a quick sketch she had done of a stack of books on her desk at work. "Oh, yeah," she answered. "I was bored."

Sherlock looked up at her, turning his gaze from the drawing. "Why don't you draw for yourself?" he wanted to know. "You're good- very good."

Max looked at him oddly. "Okay, something's wrong here," she said. "Sherlock Holmes, giving me not one, but _two_ compliments in less than five minutes?"

He gave her a look. "I'll take it back if you want," he offered.

"No, no, no!" she exclaimed. "Thank you for the compliments."

Sherlock smirked. "You're welcome," he replied.

Max rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah," she said. She sighed. "But to answer your question, I don't really know. I just... haven't drawn in a while. I've been meaning to pick it up again but I haven't gotten around to it. I guess I just need a push to-"

"Ow," Sherlock interrupted suddenly, and Max stopped talking, looking at him in concern as he rubbed at his temples, screwing up his eyes in pain. "Owww. Brain freeze."

Max stared at him blankly for a moment, trying to wrap her mind around the absurdity of the situation, that she was sitting here with Sherlock Holmes, the Internet-famous consulting detective, and of all things he had gotten brain freeze. Then, even though she knew it wasn't really funny, she started laughing.

Sherlock glared at her. "It's not funny!" he insisted, but that just caused Max to start laughing louder. He tried to scowl, and for a second he actually almost pulled it off- but then, despite himself, he started laughing too.

000

"How are you so good at this?" Max groaned.

Sherlock smirked. "It's a gift," he replied confidently.

Max scowled at Sherlock, who was sitting on the ground next to her. They had relocated from the dining table to the floor in front of the TV, and sprawled out in front of them was nothing other than...

"It's _Candyland!_ " Max insisted. "Skill has nothing to do with it- it's just luck! But you've won the last five times!"

Sherlock shook his head. "Six," he corrected. He took a card from the deck; then, with a broad smirk, he moved his piece to the color indicated on the card- an orange- which _just so happened_ to land him on the rainbow square of King Kandy's castle. "I stand corrected. Seven, now."

Max fell backward to the floor with a groan.

000

"What d'you mean, you haven't watched Star Wars?!" Max exclaimed.

Sherlock shrugged. "I never watched it," he said.

She looked at him in shock. "But... it's Star Wars!" she protested. "It's a classic! _How?_ "

He shrugged again.

"Well prepare to get educated, you... you filthy, stinking... uneducated... Hutt!" Max exclaimed. She frowned. "Sorry, I don't really know where I was going with that. It was supposed to be an insult."

Sherlock blinked. "What's a Hutt?" he asked.

Max sighed, shaking her head. "You will learn, Sherlock," she said. "You will learn."

000

Sherlock sat down across from Max, ice cream refills in his hands. He passed one to Max, who started eating right away. "Do you ever... stop eating?" he asked.

Max shrugged. "When I'm talking," she said. She patted her stomach. "See this? Bottomless pit. Besides, I exercise it off... mostly." Sherlock just gave her a look. "What?! Eating is my stress relief! At least I don't shoot up walls."

He frowned. "Touche," he grumbled.

000

"... but... the planet is blown up. Poof. Destroyed. So Han is like, how am I going to get my money? And then they see something off in the distance, and it looks like a moon. But Obi-Wan is like... _that is no moon._ Guess what- it's _the Death Star._ "

Max paused her story and glanced at Sherlock, trying to gauge his reaction to her dramatic retelling of Star Wars, complete with flailing arms and exaggerated facial expressions. But the detective sighed in boredom. "Why are stories so predictable, even in space?" he asked. "Let me guess, they sneak onto the Death Ship-"

"Star," Max corrected.

"The Death Ship, and they rescue Princess whatever-her-name-is, and then Darth something-or-other kills the old man," Sherlock continued.

Max raised an eyebrow. "And you've _never_ watched Star Wars?" she asked.

000

Sherlock blinked. "Why don't I like my brother?" he repeated in surprise.

Max nodded. "Yeah, it doesn't seem like you guys can last two minutes without one of you insulting the other," she said.

He was silent for a moment as he considered that, then he shrugged. "It started when we were children," he replied.

She waited for a moment, waiting for him to continue. He didn't. "...what about it?" she asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "He was an insufferable child," he said simply.

It seemed like that was all he was willing to say on the matter, and by now she knew better than to push him. "Right," she agreed.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, but then Sherlock sighed. "He treated me like I was stupid," he muttered. "He still does."

Max blinked in surprise, taken aback by him suddenly opening up. "...You're not stupid, you know that, right?" she asked.

Sherlock gave her a small smile. "I know," he said. "But..." His smile faded, and he looked at her earnestly. "Thank you."

000

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean, _Darth Vector_ -"

"Vader," Max muttered.

"-is Leo's father?" Sherlock demanded.

Max grimaced. "It's _Luke_ ," she told him. "Leo... that's not even close. They don't even sound the same. And yes, Darth Vader is Luke's father." She gave him a look. "How do- how do you not know that? Everyone knows that, even if they haven't watched Star Wars! I thought you knew that!"

But Sherlock seemed too shocked to take offense. "Wait- how- _what?_ " he stuttered.

She smirked. "Am I making a Star Wars fan out of you yet?" she teased.

He blinked in surprise, as if just realizing how invested he was. Then he scowled. "No," he said.

Max grinned. "I think I am!" she exclaimed.

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "Are not," he grumbled.

"Are too!"

"Are not."

"Are too!"

"... I'm not doing this with you."

000

"Rock... paper... scissor... shoot."

Max whooped as her paper covered Sherlock's rock. "Yes!" she exclaimed. "I win!"

Sherlock frowned. "Best of five," he insisted.

She laughed and shook her head. "Nope, I already let you do best of three when you lost the first one," she replied.

He scowled. "But... it's just luck!" he protested.

Max grinned at him. "Suck it, you frickin Candyland genius!" she retorted. "Rock paper scissors is _mine!"_ She burst out laughing, falling to the floor. Sherlock just shook his head with an indulgent smile as she whooped again. "Ha! Take that!"

000

" _No,_ " Sherlock said. "Leia is Luke's sister?"

Max blinked. "Yes," she replied. "That... that is also something I thought everybody knew."

Sherlock looked at her with wide eyes. "No way," he declared. "She can use the Force too, then, right? Does she get a lightsaber?" He paused, and it was almost like Max could actually see a lightbulb turn on in his head. "She could be the one to defeat the Emperor."

Max was silent for a second, but then she patted him gingerly on the shoulder. "How about I, ah, keep going, shall I?" she suggested.

000

Sherlock stretched out on the floor, his arms folded behind his head, and Max did the same next to him. The two of them were laying on the ground, facing the ceiling. "That looks like a sheep," Sherlock said, pointing to a pattern of cracks in the middle of the ceiling.

Max pointed to the far right corner. "See that?" she asked. "That's a dragon- you see the teeth and the wings and the body, curled up to pounce? And there-" She gestured slightly to the left. "-is a human, taming it. She's reaching out- she's scared, she doesn't know what the dragon's going to do... but she's taking a leap of faith."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, but then Sherlock glanced at her. "You really are an extraordinary artist," he told her.

She scoffed. "Me?" she replied. "Nah. I'm nothing special."

He gave her a small smile. "Max, you've never been more wrong about anything in all of the time that I've known you," he said.

Max blinked in surprise, staring at him with wide eyes. Then she smiled back, and they turned back to the ceiling in a warm silence.

"I'm scared," Max suddenly said. Sherlock looked over at her. "That's why I don't draw for myself. I'm scared of putting my thoughts- my _self-_ on paper. I mean, I know I can do it. It's just... it's _intimate_. I'm sharing something that's close to me, but what if somebody hates it- hates _me_?"

Sherlock stared at the ceiling as he considered that. "Then forget about them," he told her.

She blinked. "What?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Forget about them," he repeated. "They don't matter. Don't listen to anything else besides what's in here." He tapped her heart, his touch feather-light.

Max looked at him in surprise, stunned into silence. Then she smiled at him. "Thanks," she said.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course," he replied.

Just as before, Sherlock's phone sighed suggestively- a text from Irene. But this time Sherlock made no move to get it, his eyes locked with Max's.

"... are you going to check that?" Max asked.

"No, I don't think so," he answered.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Sherlock turned his attention back to the ceiling. "I think my sheep is dancing," he said. "See, it's wiggling back and forth."

Max looked at him oddly. "Are you high?" she demanded.

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. "No," he mused. "But I feel like it."

"It's the sugar high from the ice cream," Max decided. "How many bowls did we eat? Three? Four?"

He shrugged. "I lost track around five," he said.

They shared a look... and they both burst out laughing.

000

"... that's it?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. "That's the end? The Death Star blows up and oh, it's all happy now?"

Max nodded. "Yeah, that's it," she said. "The end."

He scowled. "No, that can't be it," he protested. "That was too simple. Too easy. Where's the... the twist? The surprise?"

She shrugged. "Sorry to break it to you, Sherlock, but not everything's a mystery," she told him. Sherlock frowned. "... Alright, well, there's the prequels, but we are _not_ talking about those, even though I totally had a crush on Obi-Wan. Do you know how hard it is to resist Ewan McGregor?"

Sherlock gave her a look. "I'll take your word for it," he replied, even though he seemed unconvinced.

They lapsed into silence for a moment, but then Max nudged him. "So, you liked it?" she asked.

He hesitated. "... No," he answered.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, c'mon," she said. "You were _invested._ You even remembered all the names by the end of it!"

Sherlock frowned. "... I... might have... enjoyed it," he admitted.

Max grinned. " _Yes!"_ she exclaimed. "Victory! Was it the sci-fi? It must be the sci-fi, since you didn't like Lord of the Rings." Her eyes widened. "I got it. We should watch Star Trek."

He looked at her in confusion. "Is that related to Star _Wars_...?" he asked.

She glared at him. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that," she told him.

000

They had gotten through the first few episodes of Star Trek when Max glanced at the clock. "Oh my God, it's two in the morning," she realized. "I didn't mean to stay this long, I totally lost track of the time-"

"No, it's fine," Sherlock said. "Might as well stay the night."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really?" she asked. "You're okay with that?"

He nodded. "Of course," he replied.

Max grinned. "Alright, then, I'd better get comfy," she said, settling in on the couch that she and Sherlock were sharing.

For a few moments they were quiet as they watched, but then Max glanced over at him. "Thanks," she told him.

Sherlock just _hmm_ ed in response.

000

John returned to 221B early the next morning; Sarah had an early shift, so she was out of the flat early, and he didn't see a reason to stick around if she wasn't there. He walked into the flat quietly, expecting Sherlock to be asleep.

Sure enough, Sherlock was asleep, but the scene was far from what John had expected. Max and Sherlock were sitting on the couch, the TV in front of them playing a Star Trek episode, and they had both fallen asleep. Max's head had fallen onto Sherlock's shoulder throughout the night, and his arm was resting on the couch back behind her.

"No bloody way," John whispered.

Sherlock started stirring at the sound of John's entrance, and his eyes opened blearily, taking in the situation. He glanced at Max next to him, then turned to John, raising his finger to his lips to indicate silence. John nodded and, after flashing a thumbs up to Sherlock, headed into his room, grinning from ear to ear.

000

The alarm on Max's phone went off at 7:30, and she woke up without realizing where she was at first. Then she took in the familiar surroundings of 221B and... and Sherlock next to her, still sleeping. Max stared at him for a moment, observing the unguarded expression on his face, peaceful in sleep.

Suddenly she remembered her alarm, and she realized she would be late for work if she didn't head out now. She stood up and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Sherlock," she whispered. "Sherlock."

He groaned as he woke up, rubbing his eyes, obviously still half asleep. "Max?" he asked. "What is it?"

"I'm slipping out," she told him. "I have to get to work, I just wanted to tell you so you didn't wonder where I was when you woke up."

Sherlock grunted. "Right," he answered.

Max turned to go- but right as she was about to step away from the couch, she turned back around and gave Sherlock a hug. He tensed for a moment, obviously taken by surprise... but then he hugged her back.

She pulled away after a moment, giving Sherlock a small smile. "Well, I'll, uh... I'll see you," she said.

He nodded, still seeming surprised about the hug. "Right," he agreed. Then she turned away and walked out of the flat... unaware of Sherlock's gaze following her.

000

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and that night, Sherlock and John were sitting in their armchairs. John was on his laptop, typing up his next blog entry, and Sherlock was fiddling with his violin, plucking random notes as he stared out at nothing, deep in thought.

"Can you... can you do that quieter?" John asked. Sherlock glared at him, but he quieted his playing.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments, and the comfortable silence stretched on. Then Sherlock frowned. "John," he said seriously. "I think something's wrong with me."

John looked at him oddly. "What d'you mean?" he asked.

Sherlock scowled. "My brain is frozen," he answered. "I can't- I can't _think!_ I can't get _her_ off of my mind!"

John blinked. "Who, Irene?" he guessed.

Suddenly Sherlock stood up and started pacing. "No, no, no!" he shouted. "Max! This whole day, I can't stop thinking about her! She makes me feel _fuzzy_ and _warm_ and... _ugh!"_ He whirled around to face John. "What's wrong with me?!"

John stared at him in shock, hardly able to believe that _the very thing he had been trying to get to happen_ was now happening before his very eyes. "Sherlock," he said slowly. "Nothing's wrong with you. Now, this is going to come as a shock, but... you're having something called _feelings_."

Sherlock scowled. "I know I have feelings, John," he retorted. "But that's not... _this_. I haven't felt _this_ before."

John placed his laptop to the side, turning his full attention to Sherlock. "No, I mean... you're having feelings for Max," he clarified. "Y'know how I've always been saying you fancy her? You really, _really_ do now."

"Do not," Sherlock muttered, but he said it halfheartedly, as if he wasn't totally convinced.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments as Sherlock frowned in thought. John looked at him in concern, and then he reached over and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Just... think about it," John said. "And if you decide that you fancy her, well, I can help you out."

With that, John grabbed his laptop and headed to his room. Sherlock remained in his armchair, staring at the empty space that John had just vacated... then he stood up with his violin in hand, walking over to the window.

John could hear when Sherlock started playing- Sherlock always played loud, so he was used to it by now. But something was different about this time. Sherlock's song choice always reflected his mood- whenever he had just met with Mycroft, he played something angry, and then there was the haunting piece he had composed after their encounter with Irene, filled with yearning and mystery. But now he was playing something new- another original piece- and it was _happy_. There were no double meanings or hidden agendas; it was just... simple and pure.

Nothing could have been more fitting.


	31. Simple Matters

Sherlock Holmes had never been one to get distracted easily. Now, choosing not to pay attention, that was another thing; but whenever he wanted to focus on something- like the case he was working on right now- he did so with laser-like precision.

... which made it hard to explain why he had been sitting in his armchair for the past ten minutes, staring at a dead woman's last tweets without reading them.

The fact of the matter was simply that _he couldn't get Max out of his head._

As he tried to read through the seemingly endless tweets, he couldn't stop thinking about that night a week ago. Not just the Star Wars part- even though he had to admit that it had been fascinating- or that he was in the process of bingeing the entire Star Trek franchise now. No, his head was filled with her easy smile, with the way she tucked her hair behind her ear as she worked but it fell out anyway, with... with how she always seemed to have horrible luck at Candyland, and her hopes and dreams when it came to art- and every time he looked up at the ceiling he kept seeing that dragon and that human reaching out to it.

Something was wrong with him.

"... have you heard a word that I've been saying? Sherlock? Hello?"

Sherlock blinked and turned his attention to John, who was waving his hand in front of Sherlock's face. "What?" Sherlock snapped. "When did you get here?"

John gave him a look. "Five minutes ago," he said. "I was _saying_ that Lestrade's talking to the brother, but it doesn't seem like he has anything more to say besides what he told us already. Donovan and Anderson are going over the CCTV tapes again too. Did you find anything on her Twitter?"

Sherlock didn't even look up at him. "They're wasting their time," he told him. "Donovan and Anderson. I watched the tapes, and Ceylan Hassan wasn't _pushed._ She stepped out in front of that bus on purpose; she wanted to die. The question is, _why?"_

John sat down next to him. "So you believe him?" he asked. "Frank, I mean. The brother. That there's more to this than just a suicide?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course," he said. He gestured to the tweets on the computer in front of him. "Have you read these? 'I know he's coming for me. I know he's coming. I know.' Clearly there's something else going on here."

John raised an eyebrow. "And...?" he trailed off.

Sherlock scowled. "I'm working on it," he grumbled.

It didn't seem like Sherlock was going to say anything more on the topic, so John sighed and sat down in his armchair. Sherlock continued scowling at the Ceylan's Twitter, scrolling through the tweets in silent determination.

"Frank- the brother- said that she deleted her Facebook account before she died," Sherlock said suddenly. "I need to see what was on there."

John frowned. "How?" he asked. "It was deleted."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then held out his hand. "Give me your laptop," he answered.

000

"It was her ex," Sherlock declared as he and John walked into Lestrade's office.

Lestrade looked up from the paperwork on his desk. "Her ex?" he repeated.

Sherlock passed Lestrade his phone, where he had Ceylan's email account open. "We read the emails she deleted," Sherlock said. "At first we didn't see anything, but then we looked at the spam folder." He gestured to the phone. "Read the addresses. _comingforyou. noescape. deadgirl30._ It was the same on her Twitter and Facebook; she was being bombarded by a constant stream of spam containing hidden threats. It got into her head, and so she killed herself."

Lestrade blinked. "But how did you get the deleted emails?" he asked. "And her Facebook?"

John raised his hand. "That was me, actually," he volunteered. Lestrade looked at him oddly. "No, I mean, _I_ didn't do it, but-" He sighed and started again. "We- well, Sherlock- found someone through my blog. His username is theimprobableone. He helped us."

Lestrade nodded. "Alright," he said, even though he still sounded confused. He gestured to emails open on the phone. "Still, though, how do you know the ex did it?"

Sherlock took his phone back and pulled up Ceylan's Twitter. "We read through her Twitter again," he answered, showing the tweets to Lestrade. "She mentioned this man she'd been out with a few times, but she ended it with him. He didn't take it well. Now go do your job and arrest him, Detective." With that, he turned and swept towards the door-

-but he paused at the last second, turning back to face Lestrade. "Are Anderson and Donovan still looking at the CCTV tapes?" he asked.

Lestrade frowned. "I think so," he answered. "Why?"

Sherlock smirked. "How about we let them keep doing that for a few hours, shall we?" he said. Before Lestrade could reply, Sherlock walked out of the office.

John and Lestrade shared a look, then John shrugged and followed Sherlock. The door swung closed behind him.

000

"Well, that was quick," John remarked.

He and Sherlock had returned to 221B after their talk with Lestrade, and at the moment they were sitting at the dining table. John had made a sandwich- the extent of his cooking skills, really- and Sherlock had poured himself a tea. Sherlock scowled as he aggressively spooned sugar- two scoops- into his drink. "Not as quick as it should have been," he said. "I was distracted."

John _hmm_ ed. "I could tell," he replied.

Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back in exasperation. "Her deleted emails, John!" he exclaimed. "It was obvious. Simple. That's the first place I should have looked. It took _half an hour_. I should have been done in ten minutes."

John shrugged. "Yeah, well, we all make mistakes," he told him.

Sherlock scowled. "Not me," he grumbled.

For a moment they were both silent, John eating his sandwich and Sherlock sipping his tea. Then he sighed. "I thought about what you said the other night," he told him. "About Max."

John raised an eyebrow. "And?" he asked.

Sherlock stirred his tea absentmindedly. "I... let's say you're right," he said. "That I have feelings for her. What do I... what do I do?" John blinked in surprise, not having expected Sherlock to give in that easily. Sherlock scowled at him. "Oh, stop giving me that look."

John held up his hands in surrender. "I don't have a look! I'm not giving you a look!" he exclaimed. He sighed. "But, to answer your question, just ask her to coffee. It's not hard, really."

Sherlock scowled. "I _know_ it's not hard," he snapped.

John spread his arms victoriously. "There you go!" he said. "It's not hard! So just go and do it!"

That just caused Sherlock's scowl to deepen, and for once it seemed like he didn't know what to say.

000

For the rest of the day, Sherlock alternated between pacing, playing his violin, and shooting at the wall. John was attempting to watch TV, but every so often he glanced up at Sherlock, who was clearly disturbed- well, more disturbed than he already was. The hours wore on tediously, to the point that John was even considering shooting at the wall too.

There was the sound of Mrs. Hudson starting to cook dinner (extremely early, as usual), and that seemed to prompt Sherlock into finally speaking. "I'm going to do it," he declared.

John looked up sharply. "You're going to ask her out?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "I am," he answered.

John sighed in relief. "Oh, thank God," he declared.

Sherlock's pacing sped up as he worked out his nerves. "I will," he said again. "The next time I see her I'm going to ask her out to coffee. It's easy."

John's gaze followed him back and forth as he paced from corner to corner. "Very easy," John reassured him. "You solve murders, Sherlock. This is nothing. It's simple."

Sherlock nodded. "Simple," he echoed.

"What's simple?" a voice asked from the doorway.

Both Sherlock and John whirled around to see Max standing there, having just come from work. "Max!" John exclaimed in surprise. "What- what are you doing here?"

Max shrugged with a smile. "I felt like stopping by," she said simply. "I haven't seen you two for a while."

John glanced at Sherlock, who had frozen in the middle of his pacing, looking at Max like a deer caught in headlights. "Actually, that was really good timing," John said slowly, his gaze returning to Max. "Sherlock has something to say to you, _right, Sherlock?_ "

Both Max and John turned to Sherlock, who cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yes, I, um..." he trailed off. He walked up to Max, who was still hovering in the middle of the doorway. She stared expectantly at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence, and he looked down at her with an uncertain expression. "Max, I-"

Suddenly he scowled, cutting himself off mid-sentence. "I'm going out," he declared. Without another word, he brushed past her and walked out of the flat, slamming the door loudly behind him.

Max blinked in surprise, trying to wrap her brain around what had just happened. "Uh... is he okay?" she asked.

John just groaned and hid his head in his hands.

000

By the time Sherlock returned to the flat, it was late at night, and Max had already left. John was sitting in his armchair, reading a book as he waited for Sherlock to come back. He looked up as Sherlock walked in. "Where were you?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I took a walk," he answered.

John gave him a look. "That was a disgrace," he told him sternly.

Sherlock flopped down onto his armchair. "What are you talking about?" he replied.

John scowled. "You know what I'm talking about," he said. "You _said_ you were going to ask her out."

Sherlock rubbed his face wearily. "I know, I know," he sighed. "I was going to do it, I was."

"But?" John prompted.

Sherlock groaned. "I don't know!" he exclaimed. "I... I got _nervous!_ "

For a moment John stared at him in shock, then chuckled and shook his head. "You'll risk your life just for the sake of something to do, but you won't ask a girl out," he said. "Sherlock. You're overthinking this."

Sherlock scowled. "Don't I always," he muttered. "If you're trying to help, John, it's _really_ not working."

John sighed. "Okay, okay, okay," he replied. "Just... I don't know what's so hard about this, Sherlock. You can act out all these complicated aliases but you can't ask Max out to coffee?"

Sherlock shot him a look. "This is different," he told him. " _Max_ is different." He was silent for a second, then he sighed. "It's easy pretending to be somebody you aren't. Being yourself is the hard part."

For a moment John stared at him, then he reached out and clapped him on the back. "Alright, just do what I tell you to," John said.

Sherlock frowned at him. "What do you mean?" he asked.

John placed his book to the side. "I'm going to teach you how to ask her out," he told him. "And you're going to do it, and you're going to _get her,_ okay?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then he looked at John with a determined look in his eyes. "Alright," he agreed. He hesitated. "And, uh... John? Thank you."

John blinked in surprise. "You're welcome," he said. The two flatmates shared a look, then John cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, let's start, eh?"

000

"They said they liked what you did on this bit," Anna was telling Max as they walked through the halls of Bibliotheque. It was the next morning, and Max and Anna had just left a meeting with a client about a design that they had worked on together. Anna was gesturing to a paper copy of the design. "So keep that, but maybe tweak the color scheme so it's a bit bolder, eye-catching, y'know."

Max frowned thoughtfully as they turned the corner on the way back to her desk. "Okay, got it," she agreed. "I can make the title bigger, maybe by ten percent, and I'll change the font too."

Anna nodded. "I like it," she said. "Try to get it done before- hey, wait, is that Sherlock Holmes?! The Internet detective?"

Max looked up sharply and saw that Sherlock was indeed at her desk, standing there as if it was totally normal for him to visit her at work. It didn't seem like he had noticed them yet. "... Yeah, that's him, alright," Max answered, trying to mask her surprise.

Sherlock looked up as they approached, his eyes meeting Max's. "Hi," he said simply.

Max blinked. "Hi," she replied.

For a moment the two of them stood there, staring at each other, then Anna cleared her throat, reminding them of her presence. Max jumped in surprise. "Oh, right!" she exclaimed. "Sherlock, this is my coworker Anna. Anna, Sherlock. My, uh, my friend."

Anna gave Sherlock a small smile. "Nice to meet you," she told him. She turned to Max. "I'll get out of your hair now. Just make those changes and get it back to me before lunch, okay?"

Max nodded. "Yeah, got it," she agreed. Anna waved at the two of them, then turned and walked away, leaving Max and Sherlock alone.

Once again the two of them just stood there in silence, neither of them sure what to say, then Max cleared her throat. "Are you feeling better?" she asked.

Sherlock blinked. "What?" he replied.

Max looked at him oddly. "Yesterday, when you walked off," she clarified. "John said that you had a headache."

Sherlock coughed awkwardly. "Oh," he said. "Yes. I'm better."

It didn't seem like he was going to say any more than that. Max leaned against her desk casually. "So, er, not that I'm not glad to see you, but... why are you here?" she asked.

Sherlock glanced at her and then her desk. _Her desk is messy; it must have been a busy day if she hasn't had a chance to clean up,_ he thought. _She's been doodling more though. She's inspired. By what?_ Well, him, possibly- hopefully. The thought made him feel... oddly nervous, but excited and hopeful at the same time. It was an odd feeling. Before he could explore that thought further, he forced his mind back to his deductions. _Hmm. She didn't sleep well last night, her makeup is a mess._ _She's been stress eating- three large chocolate wrappers in the garbage and it isn't even lunch yet._

He was about to comment on how she should _really_ water the small plant on her desk- after all, based on the dryness of the soil, she watered it every Monday, but it was Wednesday now and she clearly had forgotten about it- but then he remembered what John had said last night. _No deducing,_ he had told him. _Ask her questions, get her to start talking. Girls like it when you do that, y'know._

So Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly instead, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Erm, how's your plant?" he asked.

Max blinked in surprise. "My plant?" she repeated blankly. Then she followed his gaze to the plant on her desk. "Oh! My plant! I totally forgot about that!" She reached out and prodded at the soil. "Yeah, I should probably water it." She shrugged sheepishly. "I'm not good with taking care of things."

Sherlock _hmm_ ed, but otherwise he didn't say anything. Max sat down at her desk. "Yeah, everything's a bit of a mess right now," she commented. "I'm normally more put together than this, I swear."

Still Sherlock didn't say anything, and Max looked up at him to see that he was standing there with an uncertain look on his face. "Sherlock?" she asked. "Are you okay?"

He coughed awkwardly. "I'm fine," he said. "Perfectly fine. Just swell." If anything, that just caused Max to be even more concerned, and he gave her a small smile.

"... right," she agreed, even though from her tone it sounded like she didn't agree at all.

For a moment there was an awkward, terrible silence. Everything in Sherlock screamed to say something, anything at all, but his mind- his brilliant, sharp mind- was blank. Desperately he thought back to another thing that John had told him. _Get her in a good mood before you ask her anything,_ he had said. _Let her talk about something she likes, get her to loosen up._

Sherlock cast his gaze over her desk again, pausing on her sketches. "You've been drawing lately?" he asked.

Max glanced over at her sketches. "Oh, yeah," she admitted. "Yeah, I've been in the mood. Inspiration strikes, y'know?" She shrugged. "I was thinking about what you were saying. The other night, I mean. And you're right. About drawing, putting myself out there. It's a risk- I mean, once it's out there it's out of my control and I'm leaving myself vulnerable to complete strangers- but... I'm going to try it. Diving headfirst into deep waters, right?"

She was talking- Sherlock could see her lips moving- but her words were going in one ear and out the other. He watched her expression, which was getting more and more excited the longer she talked, trying to gauge when exactly she was in a good mood. He frowned, trying to figure out what he would say to her. _Are you free after work tomorrow?_ No, too dull. _Would you_ _want to go out to coffee?_ Good start, but not quite there. _Let's go out to coffee._ There, that was better.

He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself to speak; then, when he was ready, he opened his mouth and-

"Hey, um, I was thinking, do you want to go to lunch tomorrow?" Max blurted suddenly.

Sherlock looked at her in complete and utter shock, unable to form words. Max was frozen in horror, completely embarrassed that _she had actually asked Sherlock Holmes on a date_. She had thought she was over it, but seeing him standing there- here in her work of all places, looking comically uncomfortable- it had just slipped out without her fully thinking about the consequences. From the expression on Sherlock's face he was actually speechless, probably just as surprised as she was about what she had just done.

 _Oh, God, I've ruined it,_ she thought to herself. _He probably doesn't even think of me like that and I've just ruined our friendship and-_

"... on a date?" Sherlock clarified, finally having gathered himself enough to form some semblance of a sentence.

Max blinked. "Um... yes," she said. "On.. on a date." She coughed awkwardly. "I mean, that's to say, if you want it to be. If not we can just, y'know, pretend this never happened and just go back to normal because I _really_ don't-"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted.

She looked at him blankly. "... yes?" she repeated.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I... um... I want it to be a date," he said.

... he wanted it to be a date.

Max could hardly wrap her mind around what was happening, but even so she kept talking, only half aware of what she was actually saying. "Oh, okay, good!" she exclaimed. "Um, there's a nice Chinese place a few blocks away from here, if you're interested." Sherlock nodded mutely, his expression just as shocked as she felt, and still she kept talking. "Okay, so, um, my lunch break is at 11. Do you... do you want to meet me here, and we'll walk there together?"

Sherlock nodded again. "Alright," he agreed. He paused for a moment, not sure if he should say something else, but then John's advice came back to him. _Get out of there once you ask her, before it gets awkward._ Sherlock cleared his throat. "Um, okay then. I'll be here. I'll... I'll see you here tomorrow."

Max nodded too. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I'll... uh... I'll see you."

With that, Sherlock turned to go- but then he turned back around and held out his hand to her. Bewildered- and still trying to put her thoughts in order- Max stared at his hand blankly for a moment, but then she came back to herself and shook it. Then, nodding to her one last time, Sherlock walked away from her desk.

"Did he just... shake your hand?" someone asked behind her.

Max turned around to see her neighbor Tony sticking his head around the divider between their desks. She would have been surprised at his sudden appearance, but honestly, that was the least shocking thing that had happened in the last few minutes.

"... I think he did," she answered.

000

Meanwhile, Sherlock had just stepped out of the Bibliotheque offices, standing there on the pavement for a moment and breathing in the London air. Then he nodded to himself. "See, it's simple," he declared. And with that, he stuck out his hand to hail a cab back to Baker St.

After all, he had a lot to tell John... and a date to prepare for.


	32. Little Victories

_2 Months Later_

"A little higher... no, too high... okay, a bit to the right... stop! Right there!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock glanced down at him from where he was standing on a chair. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I really don't want to do this again if you're wrong-"

"No, I'm sure," John interrupted. He passed up a hammer. "Now finish up and get down from there before Max comes back and yells at us for standing on chairs."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock took the hammer and hit the nail into the wall at the place that John had indicated. "Don't worry, she'll be out for at least another half hour," he said as he hung up the holly garland in his hand. "You know her when it comes to food, she'll take hours in the chocolate section looking for-"

"Did someone say chocolate?"

Instantly, Sherlock was scrambling off of the chair, and John quickly stepped in front of him in an attempt to cover for him. Max walked into the flat, grocery bags in hand. She looked at them suspiciously, but they just blinked innocently at her, and she continued on, dropping the bags on the kitchen table.

It was nearly the end of December by now, and with Christmas Eve the next day, Max, Sherlock, and John were holding a party the next evening. Preparations- which had been put off for far too long- were going on in full swing, as Sherlock and John decorated the flat and Max did the food shopping.

"Good job on the decorations, by the way," Max remarked. "How did you get that holly garland all the way up there on top of the window?"

Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly as he walked over to her. "We have our ways," he said. He leaned over her shoulder, trying to see what was in the shopping bags, and Max gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "What food did you get?"

John shuddered. "Still not used to that," he grumbled.

Max rolled her eyes. "It's been two months, Johnny," she said. "Well, I mean, he wouldn't come within a foot of me for the first three weeks-"

"Nineteen days!" Sherlock protested.

"-three weeks, as I said," Max continued, "but we got there eventually!"

Sherlock scowled. "Nineteen days," he repeated. He pulled one of the grocery bags towards him and started poking through it. "Did you get the ice cream? I asked for ice cream."

Max sighed. "Yes, Sherlock, I got the ice cream," she said, pushing another bag towards him. "It's in there. I still don't know why you want it when it's in the middle of winter and literally freezing outside, but I got it." She slipped off her coat and placed it on the back of a chair. "Anyway, I got everything for the party. Beer, wine, snacks. Do you think we should get paper plates? I didn't get paper plates." She groaned. "I should've gotten paper plates."

John waved his hand dismissively. "No, we should have some laying around," he replied. "We live off of takeout and they always give extra plates."

Max snapped her fingers suddenly. "Oh, guess who I ran into at the store?!" she exclaimed. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but she reached out and put a hand over his mouth before he could say anything. "Dimmock."

"Knew it," Sherlock declared, his voice slightly muffled behind Max's hand.

John raised an eyebrow. "Dimmock, as in the DI in charge of the Blind Banker?" he asked.

Max nodded as she took her hand from Sherlock's mouth. "The very one," she said. "And the... what did you call it, the Murder at the Orient Express?" She grinned at Sherlock. "Remember that one?"

He smirked. "How could I not?" he asked.

John groaned. "Only you, Sherlock," he grumbled. "Only you would have your first date interrupted by a murder. You're lucky Max is still going out with you."

Max rolled her eyes. "Ignore him, Sherlock," she told him. " _I_ had fun." They glanced at each other, remembering that first lunch date two months ago.

000

 _"Let me get this straight... you shook her hand?" John asked incredulously._

 _Sherlock gave him a look. "Yes, that's what I said," he told him. "I was improvising. I thought it went well."_

 _But John just continued to stare at him in shock. "... you shook her hand," he repeated, completely dumbstruck. "And she still wanted to go on a date with you? After that?"_

 _Sherlock sighed. "Yes, John," he replied. "Now, enough about that. This is the issue that I wanted to ask you about." He held up two shirts; one was a jumper and the other one was.. well... another jumper. "Which one?"_

 _It was the morning after Max and Sherlock had decided to go on a date, and Sherlock was preparing to meet her in less than an hour. He was standing in the middle of the living room, jumpers in hand, as John sat in his armchair, looking up at Sherlock like he had no clue what to do with him._

 _"... why are you wearing jumpers?" John demanded. "Since when do you even have jumpers? I wear jumpers, not you!"_

 _Sherlock looked at him in confusion. "Yes, well, I was thinking that if I wanted this to be a normal date then I should dress like a normal person- like, well, like you," he answered. "So, jumpers. Which one?"_

 _John shook his head, standing up and pushing Sherlock back into his room. "No, no, no," he said. "Go back in there and get rid of those jumpers. Max is going on a date with you, Sherlock, not me. Dress like you usually do- wear that purple shirt of yours. Yeah, the purple shirt."_

 _Sherlock scowled. "Alright, alright, alright!" he exclaimed. "Now get out, I'm changing." He slammed the door behind him, leaving John standing outside._

 _John stared at the closed door for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, then he sighed and shook his head. "He shook her hand," he muttered, turning and walking back to his armchair. "Who shakes hands with their date?"_

000

 _At 10:59 exactly, Sherlock was standing outside the Bibliotheque offices, wearing the purple shirt. He looked at his reflection in the windows: tidy, sophisticated. Perhaps too tidy. Scowling, he ruffled up his curls so that his hair stuck out at different angles._

 _He glanced at his phone._

 _11:00._

 _No sign of Max._

 _He slipped his phone away._

 _It was 11:05 by the time a very flustered Max burst out of the building. She glanced around, then her eyes landed on Sherlock. She gave him an apologetic smile as she hurried up to him. "Oh God, Sherlock, sorry," she said. "The computer crashed and I had to finish something before lunch for Tony and-"_

 _"Don't worry about it," Sherlock interrupted. "I wasn't waiting for long."_

 _The two of them stood there awkwardly for a moment, then Max cleared her throat. "Um, yeah, so... do you want to head out?" she asked._

 _Sherlock nodded. "Lead the way," he replied._

 _They started walking down the street. "Nice shirt," Max remarked._

 _Sherlock coughed. "Yes, well, uh... I like purple," he finished lamely._

 _Max's eyes brightened. "Y'know, purple is really a fascinating color," she said. "I mean, it's a mix of blue and red, obviously, but there's so much range in between all of that! Traditionally it's classified as more of a cool color, but if you mix it more towards the red side it can be used as a compliment for warm colors and-" She cut herself off with a sheepish smile. "Sorry, you probably don't want to hear me go on and on about that."_

 _He blinked. "No, it was... uh... fascinating," he attempted, but it fell flat even to his ears._

 _She laughed. "It wasn't," she said. "But thanks for trying."_

 _For a moment neither of them spoke, but then Sherlock cleared his throat. "So, have you been to this place before?" he asked._

 _Max blinked. "The restaurant?" she asked. "Yeah, the owner is a jerk, but it's a popular place for lunch since it's so close. Speaking of, we're almost there. I really like the noodles, they're hand-pulled and-"_

 _But she stopped talking when they turned the corner, both of them staring in surprise at the police barricade... right outside the restaurant that Max had been taking them to._

 _As they watched, the door to the restaurant swung open, and Dimmock walked out, on the phone. "I don't bloody know, Lestrade, that's why I was calling you!" he exclaimed. "What? No, I don't need your help. I need Sherlock Holmes's number. He-"_

 _Dimmock looked up at that moment, his gaze meeting theirs. For a second he stared at them in surprise, then he hung up the phone. "Mr. Holmes, Ms. Arthur," he said. "Perfect timing. There's been a murder."_

000

"It was fairly easy," Sherlock remarked in the present day. "We knew for a fact that Terry Wong had been killed in that restaurant around midnight. All nine people in the building at the time said they hadn't heard anything. Therefore, all of them must have been lying; they were all involved in the murder."

Max frowned. "I know they all got arrested, but honestly, dont they all have a point?" she questioned. "Terry Wong was a horrible person. Attacking customers, firing people for standing up to him... They all had legitimate reasons for wanting to kill him." She shrugged. "Anyway, back to what I was saying earlier, Dimmock says hi."

John glanced up at them. "I don't think you ever told me how you salvaged your date after that," he commented.

Max shrugged. "Yeah, well, you just broke up with Sarah at the time, so I didn't want to say too much about it," she said. "But... we managed."

000

 _By the time Sherlock had finished solving the case, Max's lunch hour was almost up, so they ended up scarfing down a quick lunch at the burger joint across the street. Then, running down the street as fast as they could, they made it back to the office two minutes before Max had to be back._

 _They skidded to a stop outside the doors of the building. "Oh my God, we made it," Max said, panting as she tried to catch her breath. "I didn't think we would."_

 _Sherlock huffed, similarly winded. "Yes, well, we wouldn't have if we had stayed to finish those fries like you wanted to-" he started._

 _"But they were good fries!" Max protested._

 _They shared a look, then suddenly they burst out laughing. "No, no, stop, I can't breathe!" Max exclaimed, but that just caused her to laugh harder._

 _Sherlock laughed. "Me neither!" he replied._

 _After a moment both of them had managed to catch their breaths, and then Max smiled at him. "Y'know, I have to say this is the first date I've been on that someone got murdered," she commented._

 _Sherlock smirked. "Yes, well, I like to keep things interesting," he said. He paused, the smirk sliding from his face. "Was, uh... was everything okay? It wasn't supposed to be like... that."_

 _Max put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. "No, Sherlock, it was great," she told him. "I had fun." She gave him a teasing smile. "Besides, I knew what I was signing on for, deductions and crime scenes and crazy science experiments included."_

 _He blinked, clearly surprised by her easy acceptance of everything that made him, well, him. Then he cleared his throat, coming back to himself. "... Good," he managed to choke out._

 _It seemed like he was about to say something else, but suddenly Max's phone went off. She grimaced as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. "That's my alarm," she said apologetically. "I should go." She let her hand slide from his shoulder with a small smile. "Thanks for the date, Sherlock."_

 _He nodded. "I'll, er... I'll text you later?" he asked._

 _Max smiled and nodded back. "Yeah," she replied._

 _She turned away and took a few steps towards the door- but suddenly she turned back around and walked back up to Sherlock. Quickly, she leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she turned back and headed inside without another word._

 _Sherlock's gaze followed her as the door swung closed behind her, too stunned to move. Then he cleared his throat, trying to collect himself. He cast one last glance after Max, who he could see walking towards the elevators, then he turned around and stuck out his hand for a cab._

000

Suddenly John's phone went off, interrupting Max's thoughts. "Oh no," John said, sounding horrified.

Sherlock perked up. "Is it a murder?" he asked.

John groaned as he banged his head on his armchair. "It will be soon," he replied. "I was supposed to be at Jeanette's ten minutes ago. I said I'd help with her school concert and I forgot all about it."

Max's eyes widened. "Oh no," she said, in the same tone as John. "You're right, she's going to kill you."

Sherlock _hmm_ ed. "You've been going through girlfriends almost as fast as I solve mysteries lately, John," he commented. "It's getting rather hard to keep track of them. Is Jeanette the one with the nose? Or have you broken up with her already?"

John gave him a look. "No, Jeanette is a teacher, and her nose is perfectly fine," he corrected. "The one with the nose only lasted a few weeks, remember?"

Sherlock nodded sagely. "Ah, now I do," he said. "She didn't like-"

"- didn't like that one time you left in the middle of the date because-" Max continued.

"Right, that!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Because I needed you on a case."

John sighed heavily. "Oh, great, they're finishing each other's sentences now," he grumbled.

Sherlock shrugged as he flopped down on his armchair. "Don't you have to go apologize to darling Jeanette so that she'll forgive you and take you back?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

John gave him a look. "You'd think that you being in a relationship would soften you up a bit, but apparently not," he said. Sighing, he stood up. "No, you're right, I should go over there."

"Remember to grovel!" Max called over from where she was still unpacking in the kitchen. "Groveling always works!"

John nodded. "Right, right, groveling," he muttered as he shrugged on his coat. "Don't burn down the flat while I'm gone."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John headed out the door. "Is that a suggestion?" he yelled after him.

His only answer was an aggressive door slam as John left the building.

"Mm, poor John," Max remarked. "She's going to break up with him soon."

Sherlock nodded. "I give it a week," he said.

Max scoffed. "Two days," she countered.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Really?" he asked. "No faith, I see."

She laughed. "None whatsoever," she replied.

000

A few hours later, Sherlock was seated on the couch, watching- predictably- Star Trek. Max was curled up on John's armchair, her brow furrowed in concentration as she focused on a project for work.

"Come watch with me," Sherlock said.

Max glanced up at him regretfully. "I have work, Sherlock," she replied.

Sherlock scoffed. "Work," he repeated mockingly. "You mean you'd rather be working than watching Star Trek?"

She sighed. "Well, no," she admitted.

He nodded, as if that made his point. "There you go," he said.

Shaking her head- but with an amused smile on her face- Max turned back to her work.

Sherlock sighed. "... Spock is about to sacrifice himself," he offered.

"Why didn't you say so?!" Max exclaimed, scrambling over to the couch.

She settled in next to Sherlock, their arms brushing as she curled her legs up into a ball. She hardly seemed to have noticed- her eyes were glued to the TV screen, where Kirk and Spock were separated by a pane of glass, Spock's hand pressed up against the barrier in the Vulcan salute- but Sherlock felt her warmth, close enough that he could feel it but not quite touching. He glanced over at her, a half smile on his face as he watched her following the screen with rapt attention, her gaze bright with fascination. Then, slowly- as if he wasn't quite sure of himself- he reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Max's eyes widened in surprise, a slight shock running through her at Sherlock's casual touch. They had been dating for two months, but other than a few small gestures- almost always initiated by Max- they had never done anything like... well, like this. And she was okay with that. She knew that this was all new to Sherlock, and she knew that he needed to take it slowly, to get used to it all. All she had to do was wait for him to be ready for more.

And now he had just put his arm around her.

It was a step: a small one, but a step nonetheless. So was finally asking him out, two months ago. And him saying yes. But really, wasn't that what life was made up of? The small things that, altogether, made something big?

Little victories. That was all it was. Little victories.

She looked over at Sherlock only to see that his attention was on the TV now. Smiling slightly, she leaned her head on his shoulder and turned back to the movie.

"... I stood on the chair," Sherlock admitted. "To get the holly garland up there."

Max smiled. "I know," she told him.


	33. Christmas Parties and Cigarettes

The next day was Christmas Eve, and around evening it had started to snow gently, the flakes drifting lazily to the ground. Inside 221B, the Christmas lights that the boys had hung up the day before were glowing brightly, casting a warm light on the cozy sitting room that was cluttered with decorations and cards. The Christmas party was just beginning to start, and only the earliest guests were already there. Mrs. Hudson was in Sherlock's armchair, drinking a bit more wine than she should. John- wearing a bright-colored Christmas jumper- sat across from her in his armchair, waiting anxiously for Jeanette to arrive. Sherlock was on the couch, scowling out at the window. Lestrade and Max stood in the kitchen, Lestrade pouring himself a drink and Max loading up on snacks.

"Chocolate covered pretzels or popcorn?" Max asked him.

Lestrade blinked. "Um, popcorn," he answered uncertainly.

Max stared at the dishes for a moment, considering, then shook her head. "Nah, I'm going for the pretzels," she decided.

He gave her a look as she piled pretzels onto her plate. "Why did you... never mind," he said.

There was a sudden outburst from the sitting room, and they turned to see Mrs. Hudson trying to convince Sherlock to play something on his violin. Since there was a relatively low probability of there being an explosion- but who really knew when it came to Sherlock- they turned back to the food.

"The cookies are good," Lestrade offered. He nodded to her, then headed back into the sitting room with his drink.

Max turned back to the food, silently debating about whether to grab a second plate now or later. She had just decided to get a second plate when she felt someone resting their chin on her shoulder, leaning their head against hers.

"Rescue me," Sherlock pleaded.

She laughed. "From Mrs. Hudson?" she asked. "Sorry, Sherlock, but once that woman has you in her sights you're a goner."

He scowled as he stepped away, leaning back on the counter with his arms crossed. Max turned to face him, plate in hand. "No, no, not Mrs. Hudson," he said. " _Everything_. It looks like the sitting room barfed up red and green, and everyone is all so... cheery."

Max shrugged. "It's the holidays, you're _supposed_ to be cheery," she replied. She placed her plate down on the table and stepped closer to him, resting her forearms on his shoulders. "Besides, don't pretend you're not enjoying yourself."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her waist. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

She scoffed. "Oh, please," she said. "You're itching to show off and play your violin even if you're pretending not to, and you love making all those snarky comments because you're the center of attention." She smiled and gestured to his embrace. "This is a pretty good sign too."

He stared at her in surprise for a moment, apparently lost for words. Then he scowled. "Fine," he grumbled.

Max laughed. "Get out there and play some Christmas tunes," she told him. "Impress me."

Sherlock gave her a lopsided smile. Instead of pulling away to head back into the sitting room, he leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek, lingering briefly. "Merry Christmas, Max," he said.

She smiled. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she replied.

With that, he headed off to get his violin.

A few minutes later, Sherlock was at the window playing Christmas music. Jeanette had finally arrived, to John's relief; the two of them were in the kitchen, cutting the cake that she had brought. Max had relocated to the couch, her two plates overflowing with snacks.

Sherlock finished his rendition of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" with a fancy arpeggio that ended an octave up. Lestrade whistled in appreciation, and Max clapped as best as she could while holding a cookie. "Lovely!" Mrs. Hudson declared. "Sherlock, that was lovely!"

"Marvelous!" John added, walking into the room with a teacup in one hand and a beer in the other.

Mrs. Hudson giggled as Sherlock gave a quick bow. "I wish you could have worn the antlers!" she exclaimed, slightly tipsy.

Sherlock grimaced. "Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson," he told her.

Max grinned at him. "No, no, I think Mrs. Hudson is right," she said. She grabbed the antler headband that was laying on the end table and put them on, the bells jingling. "See? It's a fashion statement." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Mrs. Hudson giggled again, and John offered her the tea he was holding. "Mrs. H," he attempted, trying to sober her up.

Jeanette came out of the kitchen then, holding a tray with the cake. She offered it to Sherlock with a smile, but he shook his head. "No thank you, Sarah," he said.

A hush fell over the room as Jeanette's smile fell, and instantly John was there, putting his arm around her and trying to guide her away. "Uh, no, no," he said. "He's not good with names."

Sherlock frowned. "No, I can get this," he insisted. Jeanette put the tray down and crossed her arms, looking at Sherlock in annoyance. Sherlock- being Sherlock- just kept talking. "No, Sarah was the doctor, and then there was the one with the spots, and then the one with the nose, and then... who was after the boring teacher?"

"Nobody," Jeanette answered shortly.

Sherlock grinned. "Jeanette!" he exclaimed. "Process of elimination!"

Before he had a chance to say anything else, John was ushering Jeanette away. Sherlock turned victoriously to Max, who just sighed heavily. "Have a cookie," she said, holding one out to him.

He took the cookie and started nibbling at it as there was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. "Oh, dear Lord," Sherlock muttered as Molly walked in, carrying two bags filled with presents.

"Hello, everyone," Molly greeted cheerfully. "It said on the door just to come up."

Everyone muttered their hellos, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as he put his violin away. "Oh, everybody's saying hullo to each other," he grumbled sarcastically, sitting down on the couch next to Max. "How wonderful!"

Molly glanced at the two of them together, her smile slightly fixed now as she took her coat off. John stepped forward to take it. "Let me, er... holy Mary!" he exclaimed, seeing the tight black dress she was wearing.

"Wow!" Lestrade exclaimed, similarly surprised.

"Nice dress!" Max added.

Molly just smiled awkwardly. "Having a Christmas drinkies, then?" she asked.

Sherlock shrugged, completely indifferent to her arrival. "No stopping them, apparently," he said as he grabbed John's laptop.

Mrs. Hudson giggled. "It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it!" she exclaimed.

Sherlock started typing on John's laptop as Lestrade struck up a conversation with Molly. "If you're wearing the antlers to make Mrs. Hudson happy, you can take them off now," he told Max. "She's not paying attention."

Max gave him a look. "They're cute!" she protested, shaking her head to make the bells jingle.

He sighed heavily as he turned back to John's laptop. "John?" he called.

"Mm?" John replied, walking over.

Sherlock scowled at the laptop. "The counter on your blog, it still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," he told him.

John rolled his eyes. "Oh no!" he exclaimed sarcastically. "Christmas is cancelled!"

Still not satisfied, Sherlock pointed to the side bar. "And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!" he complained.

John shrugged. "People like the hat," he explained.

Sherlock scowled. "No they don't," he grumbled. "What people?" He turned to Max. "Do _you_ like the hat?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I like the hat," she answered.

His scowl deepened. "Why am I asking you? You're wearing antlers," he said.

Meanwhile, Molly's conversation with Mrs. Hudson floated over to them. "How's the hip?" Molly was asking.

Mrs. Hudson waved her hand dismissively. "Ooh, it's atrocious," she answered. "But thanks for asking."

Molly smiled. "I've seen much worse, but then I do postmortems," she told her.

Everyone stared at her blankly, and Molly's eyes widened. "Oh, God," she said. "Sorry."

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock called from over the couch.

Molly nodded. "No, sorry," she agreed.

Lestrade handed her a glass of red wine, and she smiled at him. "Thank you," she said. "I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas."

He smiled. "That's first thing in the morning," he told her. "Me and the wife. We're back together. It's all sorted."

"No, she's sleeping with a P.E. teacher," Sherlock said, not even turning his gaze from the computer.

Max gave him a look. "Sherlock..." she trailed off.

"And John!" Molly commented, turning to where John was on the arm of his armchair, while Jeanette was in the seat. "I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right? Sherlock was complaining." Sherlock raised his eyebrows pointedly, and Molly cleared her throat. "... saying."

Lestrade suddenly coughed, his expression one of shock as he realized Sherlock's comment about his wife was probably true.

"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act," John told Molly, continuing their conversation. "She's off the booze."

Sherlock scoffed. "Nope," he said.

John didn't even look over at him. "Shut up, Sherlock," he told him.

Molly gave them both a small smile, then glanced at Max. "So, Max, how's your work going?" she asked.

Max smiled. "Good, actually," she said. "They've hired a new designer, so I'm not the newbie anymore."

Molly nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, that's good!" she exclaimed. "Are you going anywhere for Christmas?"

Max shrugged. "Nah, I'm staying here," she replied. "Home sweet home."

Sherlock glanced over at her, and she saw that he knew why she had chosen to stay: for once, her life- her work, her art, everything, really- was going the way she wanted it to, and she didn't want to miss a second of it. His gaze softened as he looked at her. "You're welcome to come over anytime," he told her.

She smiled. "I know," she replied.

They shared a brief look, and then he turned towards Molly. "I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him," he commented.

Molly blinked in surprise. "Sorry, what?" she asked.

But Sherlock continued on, not even taking notice of her. "In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift," he said.

"Take a day off," John muttered in exasperation.

Lestrade walked over with a drink in hand and put it down next to Sherlock. "Shut up and have a drink," he told him.

Max cleared her throat. "Sherlock, enough," she scolded.

Sherlock ignored them, too wound up to stop now. "Oh, come on," he said. "Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag- perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. It's for someone special, then." He walked over to Molly's presents, picking up the one in question. "The shade of red echoes her lipstick- either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Ms. Hooper has love on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all. That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn. And that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she's wearing." He smirked at John as he turned over the gift tag. "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..."

He trailed off as he read the writing on the tag.

 _Dearest Sherlock. Love Molly xxx_

Sherlock stared at the words in surprise, partly shocked that he had been wrong but mostly realizing what he had just done. He looked up at Molly, who was on the verge of tears. "You always say such horrible things," she told him. "Every time. Always. _Always._ "

He was about to walk away, but then he turned back around. "I am sorry," he said. "Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He leaned forward and gave her a gentle hug.

Suddenly there was a lewd sigh, and Molly drew back, bright red. "No!" she exclaimed. "That wasn't... I- I didn't-"

"No, it was me," Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade's eyes widened. "My God, really?!" he asked.

Molly blinked. "What?" she asked.

Sherlock scowled. "My _phone,_ " he said, reaching into his jacket pocket.

John frowned. "Sixty-nine?" he asked in exasperation.

Sherlock glanced up at him. "Sorry, what?" he replied.

John gestured to his phone. "Fifty-seven of those texts- the ones I've heard," he said.

"Plus the twelve I've heard," Max added. "Sixty nine." She frowned. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock glanced at the message. _Mantlepiece._ "Thrilling that the two of you have been counting," he told them dryly as he followed the text's directions. He picked up a small box that was on the mantle, wrapped in blood-red paper and tied in black string. Looking at the wrapping he suddenly remembered the identical color of Irene's lipstick. Instantly, he turned and walked away, the box in hand. "Scuse me."

John frowned. "What- what's up, Sherlock?" he asked.

But Sherlock just kept walking. "I said excuse me," he said.

"D'you ever reply?!" John called after him.

Without a word, Sherlock disappeared into his room.

Max and John shared a look. "Should we...?" John trailed off.

She glanced after Sherlock, who had disappeared into his room even though he had left his door open. "Yeah," she said. The two of them stood up and headed after him.

In his room, Sherlock was sitting on his bed, holding the red-wrapped box. He turned it over in his hands, then unwrapped it and opened the box.

It was Irene's camera phone.

He took it out of the box and examined it closely. Normally his mind would be racing, but now he could only think one thing; _the camera phone was her life._

000

Meanwhile, Mycroft was spending Christmas alone in his house, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace. His phone rang, disrupting his thoughts, and he took it out from his jacket with an impatient scowl as he glanced at the name on the screen.

 _Sherlock._

Sighing in exasperation, he answered the phone. "Oh dear Lord," he grumbled. "I know you've started going on dates like proper humans do, but we're not going to have Christmas phone calls now too, are we? Have they passed a new law?"

"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight," Sherlock said.

Back at Baker St, Max and John were standing by the door to Sherlock's room, listening in. They shared a look, then turned their attention back to Sherlock.

"We already know where she is," Mycroft reminded him. "As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters."

Sherlock scowled. "No, I mean you're going to find her dead," he told him.

Without giving Mycroft a chance to reply, he hung up.

He walked over to the bedroom door, not acknowledging Max and John. "You okay?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

He turned to close the door, but Max reached out and stopped him. "She might not be dead," she offered.

Sherlock shook his head. "She is," he replied.

Max stared at him for a moment, then she nodded. "Yeah, probably," she said. She stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. "I'm sorry."

He stood there for a moment, his expression unreadable... then he closed his eyes and leaned into her embrace, as if it could shield him from the world.

000

Half an hour later, Sherlock was standing in the hallway outside the morgue, having just identified a body with a bashed-up face as Irene's, based on her measurements. Mycroft walked up from behind him and held out a cigarette. "Just the one," he offered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why?" he asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "Merry Christmas," he answered.

Sherlock considered the cigarette, then shook his head. "I shouldn't," he said.

Mycroft looked at him in faint surprise, then slid the cigarette away. "How did you know she was dead?" he asked.

Sherlock hesitated. "She had an item in her possession, one her life depended on," he answered. "She chose to give it up."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Where is this item now?" he replied.

Without answering, Sherlock looked at a sobbing family down the hallway, grieving over the death of a loved one. "Look at them," he said. "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

Mycroft looked at him coldly. "All lives end. All hearts are broken," he told him. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, then Sherlock glanced at him. "Merry Christmas, Mycroft," he said.

Mycroft nodded. "And a happy New Year," he replied.

Without another word, Sherlock turned and walked away, back to Baker St.

The instant he was out of earshot, Mycroft pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial. "He's on his way," he said.

Back at the flat, Max and John were clustered around Max's phone, which was on speaker. "Did he take the cigarette?" John asked.

" _Surprisingly not,_ " Mycroft replied. " _It seems we're in the clear."_

John frowned. "Are you _sure_ tonight's not a danger night?" he insisted.

" _No, but then I never am,"_ Mycroft answered. " _Still, he took it better than I expected. Because of Max, I suspect."_

Max blinked. "Uh, good," she said. "Well, we haven't found anything here- drugs, whatever- and if you think he's okay... I guess he's fine. Well, not fine, but... functional." She sighed. "I'll stay here with him just in case. I was going to anyway."

" _Thank you, Ms. Arthur,_ " Mycroft told her. Without another word, he hung up.

John blinked. "I can't believe he didn't take the cigarette," he said.

Max nodded. "Yeah," she agreed. She nudged him. "Go do what you need to. Don't worry about us."

He clapped her on the shoulder. "Thanks," he told her. "Merry Christmas, Max." She nodded, and he turned away towards Jeanette.

000

By the time Sherlock returned to 221B, everyone had cleared out from the party. Max was curled up on the couch, watching some late night show on the TV. She looked up to see him standing by the doorway, casting a glance around the room. "Where's John?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Out with Jeanette," she answered. "It's just the two of us tonight." She patted the couch next to her. "Come sit down."

He did as she said, and she wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. He leaned his head on hers, and for a few moments neither of them spoke.

"You okay?" Max asked.

"No," Sherlock answered.

She grimaced. "Yeah, stupid question," she said.

They lapsed into silence, the room quiet except for the TV. Then Max pulled away. "This might not be the best time, but... I got you something," she told him. She reached behind the couch and pulled out a wrapped parcel. "Here."

Sherlock took it from her and, after staring at it for a moment, unwrapped it. The wrapping fell to the ground as Sherlock held up an oil painting: a magnifying glass in the process of shattering against a dark grey background.

"The first thing I've painted in years," Max explained. "I wanted you to have it." She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Each glass shard has a different scene, see?" She pointed at the painting with her free hand, gesturing at a few of the shards. "Here's the cipher from the Blind Banker. That's the expensive hairpin Van Coon stole. Carl Powers' shoes. The fake Vermeer painting. The ashtray you stole from the palace. And, uh... there's us. You, me, John." She shrugged. "So... yeah."

He was quiet for a moment, and Max looked at him anxiously. "Thank you," he said finally. It didn't seem like he was going to say anything else, but that was okay; Max could see his appreciation in his eyes, something he would never be able to put into words. He gave her a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and she smiled back.

Then he cleared his throat suddenly. "I got you something too," he told her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. "Here."

She took the box and opened it. It was a necklace: a dark purple diamond on a gold chain. She lifted it from the box, and when she held it up to the light, it seemed to change color to a lighter shade.

"Purple," Sherlock said simply. "Traditionally a cool color, but if mixed with reds, it becomes a compliment-"

"- for warm colors," Max finished. She smiled at him. "You remembered."

He nodded. "Of course," he replied.

She held it out to him. "Help me put it on?" she asked. She brushed her hair off her neck, and Sherlock clipped it on with lithe fingers.

The two of them shared a look, then Max looked at him in concern. "Do you... do you want to talk about it?" she offered. "We can play a game to get your mind off it, or watch something, or-"

"Can we just lay here?" Sherlock asked. "I... I just want to hold you."

Max blinked in surprise, then she gave him a small smile. "Yeah," she said.

They laid out on the couch, facing each other with Sherlock's arms around her. "Is this okay?" Max asked.

Sherlock gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. "More than okay," he answered.

Neither of them spoke, just took solace in each other's presence. Soon Max had drifted off into sleep, a lock of hair falling forward onto her face.

It took far longer for Sherlock to sleep, his mind filled with too many thoughts. But eventually he did, finding peace in Max's steady heartbeat pulsing against him.


End file.
